nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-10-26 00:29:39+00:00.

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Nothing hurts more than having an empty wallet the day after I cash my social security check. I sometimes sat at the kitchen table, using my tears to add flavour to my stale coffee. I would sit there and pray my kids didn’t need money for something pointless. Those never-ending expenses drained the fight out of me, and all I wanted to do was disappear.

Every time my kids stepped in the door, it cost me money. Every time they left the house, it cost me money. Every time I heard the ice cream man and that stupid jingle creep up my road, it would send shivers up my spine. Every time my kids came running with their hands out, screaming for ice cream, I would feel like going outside with a bat to hit the ice cream man in the face.

Being a single mother was hard. Money was always nonexistent. Even if I had a job, I couldn't earn enough to hire someone to watch my kids. Being rich wasn't my goal; I just wanted enough so I wouldn't have to worry. All I wanted was enough to get a decent cup of coffee and not feel guilty if I decided to treat myself to one. 

I wasn't the type of person to fall for get-rich schemes. Every week, I got a notification or a leaflet in my door promising me I could be making money hand over fist. It always sounded too good to be true, so they either got chucked in the bin or ignored. 

“Earn extra income from home,” read the ad. I had heard of these multilevel marketing companies targeting people like me. I’ve been to those parties. The women selling those types of products always made it sound like they were living the dream. But you could tell from the bags under their eyes and the fake gold jewellery they wore to show off their non-existent wealth that they were working tirelessly for weeks with no breaks just to break even on the money it cost them to buy the products in the first place. 

Something was different about this, though. I didn’t have to sell anything or recruit people. It was some herbal tea company called "Heavens Gate Tea" and alll I had to do was send their test product to all the people in my town. It wasn't costing me anything, and all I had to do was give up a couple of hours of my time to ship some samples. I really had nothing to lose, and if nothing came of it, I saw it as a lesson learned. 

When the check came in the mail, I couldn’t believe my eyes. They paid me ten grand for a week's work. I couldn't believe it. At first, I thought they made a mistake. I was afraid to touch the money, at first, until the company sent me a thank-you letter with a number to ring if I wanted more work.

I spent the first few days enjoying the money. I bought my kids new clothes, toys, and ice cream cones with all the toppings; I even treated myself to a large caramel latte. 

It didn't take long for the phone calls to start coming in from people looking for more samples. So I ordered more and got paid. I mean, their herbal tea must have been good stuff to pay me that much just to send out more samples. 

Once those samples went out, the calls got even crazier; people were begging me for more, even getting angry when I told them I had none left. 

The calls continued for a few days; each day that passed, the people on the other end sounded more desperate. They sounded like addicts desperate for their next fix. 

I didn't think much at the time until one night I went to bed early after dealing with crazy people ringing me every second of the day. I was drifting off to sleep when suddenly I heard a crash in my kitchen. I lay there frozen, too scared to move, as I listened to the intruders rummaging through my drawers.

I nervously jumped from my bed and moved to the door. My heart skipped a beat when they started making their way up the stairs.

“I have a gun,” I shouted.

Whoever it was, they were determined, so I grabbed my bat when suddenly they burst through my bedroom door. 

“What do you want?” I screamed. The wide-eyed, frantic-looking woman was frothing at the mouth. 

“I need more tea. I want it. You have to give it to me now.” 

The woman's eyes turned black as she made a lunge at me before I hit her hard with the bat, knocking her unconscious. 

I ran downstairs, grabbed my phone and rang the police. 

“There's a crazy bitch in my house; I think she's tweaking or something. She was screaming for at me for a cup of tea. Please, you have to send the police.”

The operator on the other side of the phone sounded strange. “Don’t worry, mam, they’re on their way.” 

I felt a lump in my throat. 

“But I didn’t give you the address.” 

“When the officers get there, just give them the tea, and nobody will get hurt,” she said in a menacing tone.

I dropped the phone and went to my window. I nervously pulled back the curtain to find hundreds of people descending on my house.

I grabbed the phone again and dialled the number of the herbal tea company. 

“Hello, Heaven's Gate tea. How may I direct your call?”

“Please, you gotta help me. They want more tea.”

As I waited for their response, I was startled by a noise behind me. 

I turned, and a woman was creeping up behind me holding a crying baby. Her eyes were glazed over, and glaring at me.

“I’ll give you my baby for a drop of the tea. I need it.”

“There’s a woman here trying to give me her baby for more tea; what will I do?”

My heart was pounding fast, and my whole body was shaking.

"Are all the samples gone?” The woman on the other side of the phone sounded enthusiastic about the whole situation. 

"The tea is all gone; I sent out all the samples. I don't think you understand how dire my situation is."

“We understand perfectly. We see this as perfect customer feedback. We think you will have a bright future here with us at Heavens Gate Tea. Welcome to the company

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Bitter_Decision_4960 on 2024-10-25 19:22:21+00:00.

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Part 1.

I sat in the control room, staring blankly at the monitor. The sonar’s rhythmic pings filled the silence, but they felt hollow now, like the echo of something far more sinister. Emily and Dr. Miles sat beside me, neither saying a word. We had ascended hours ago, and the surface world should have brought a sense of safety. But I couldn't shake the feeling that we hadn’t left it behind. Not really. 

“I’m telling you, there was something down there,” I said, breaking the silence. 

Dr. Miles exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “We know. We all saw it.” 

“We need to report this,” Emily chimed in, her voice hoarse from the strain of the dive. “This thing—it’s massive. And it’s watching us.” 

We sent our report to the expedition sponsors. As the lead scientist, I’d be the one to communicate directly with them, explain everything. I’d done it countless times before—rattling off findings, charting data, and impressing people with cold hard facts. But this was different. 

As I prepared the message, my thoughts drifted back to a time before this expedition—a time when my curiosity had been my only driving force. I had spent years studying marine life, seeking out the rarest, most elusive species, never imagining that one day I’d encounter something like this. Something I couldn’t quantify.   

My career had been marked by success, driven by my obsession with the unknown. But that same obsession had cost me, too. I’d lost friends, relationships—people who couldn’t understand why I would spend months at sea, chasing shadows in the water. They’d call me reckless. Some even called me a fool. 

But I’d never cared. Until now. 

 

The call came back, as clinical and dispassionate as I’d feared. A voice crackled over the comms, thick with bureaucratic detachment. “We’ve received your report, Doctor. However, we urge you to proceed with the expedition. The funding for this mission is substantial, and we expect results.” 

“Results?” I repeated, incredulous. “We’re talking about an unidentified creature, one that could pose a serious threat not just to us but to—” 

“We appreciate your concerns, but you’re there for research, not speculation. The deep ocean is an unexplored frontier, Doctor. Find what you can, document it, and return. We trust your team to handle the risks.” 

I glanced at Dr. Miles and Emily. They were listening in, waiting for the verdict. My heart sank as I muttered, “They want us to continue.” 

Emily shook her head, frustration flickering across her face. “Are they insane? We barely made it back.” 

“Money talks,” Dr. Miles said bitterly, folding his arms. “They don’t care about the risks. Just the data.” 

I thought about pushing back, but what would be the point? The expedition was their investment. We were just tools, instruments to gather information they could use. And if that meant throwing us back into the depths with a creature we barely understood—so be it. 

 

We descended again the next day. The unease sat heavy in the air. This time, none of us spoke as we prepared the submersible, our movements robotic and grim. There was no sense of wonder now, no excitement about the unknown. Only dread. 

Emily initiated the descent, and the sub slipped beneath the waves, once again swallowed by the cold blackness of the deep ocean. The familiar hum of the engines was the only sound, and even that seemed muffled, as though the water itself was holding its breath. 

“Sonar’s clear,” Emily muttered. “For now.” 

We reached the depth where the whale skeleton had been discovered on the previous dive. But as we approached, something new came into view. Something that sent a shiver down my spine. 

“Stop,” I whispered. 

Emily slowed the sub’s descent, and there it was—floating in the abyss like a grotesque monument to death. 

A massive fish, its body stiff and contorted in death’s grip, drifted lifeless before us. Its bony frame was unlike anything I’d ever seen—long, armored ridges along its back, rows of razor-sharp teeth protruding from its gaping maw. It was easily twice the size of a whale, and its eyes—though lifeless—seemed to stare at us, wide and glassy. 

“What… what is that?” Emily stammered. 

“I’ve never seen a fish that large,” Dr. Miles said, his voice tight. “Nothing documented even comes close.” 

The creature had been torn apart. Huge chunks of its flesh were missing, revealing bone and sinew. Jagged wounds, like something had bitten clean through it. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the scene, but one thought screamed louder than the others. 

Whatever did this was bigger. Much, much bigger. 

“This is fresh,” I murmured, my breath fogging the glass of the viewport. “It just happened.” 

We stared at the mangled corpse in stunned silence, the implications sinking in. This thing hadn’t died of natural causes. It had been hunted, attacked. 

And we were in the territory of the hunter. 

 

The sonar pinged again, a single faint blip on the screen. My heart skipped a beat. It was back. 

“Do you think it’s… watching us?” Emily asked, her eyes wide with fear. 

I didn’t answer, but I could feel it—feel something out there, lurking just beyond our reach, waiting. 

We continued to descend, passing the carcass of the bony fish as it slowly drifted into the abyss. The tension in the sub was suffocating, every sound amplified by our growing fear. 

Then, the lights flickered, casting eerie shadows inside the cabin. The sonar pinged again, and this time the blip was larger—closer. I peered into the void through the viewport, straining to see past the narrow beam of light. 

And then, I saw it. 

At first, it was just a shape—indistinct, blending with the darkness. But as we descended further, more of the creature came into view. It was massive, its body sleek and sinuous, undulating through the water with a grace that belied its size. The ridges along its back glinted faintly in the light, each one as tall as a man. 

It was longer than the submersible, its form stretching into the blackness beyond what we could see. And it was watching us. I could feel its gaze, cold and unblinking, fixed on us like we were intruders in its domain. 

“Oh my God,” Emily whispered, her hands trembling on the controls. 

The creature didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. It simply hovered there, massive and terrifying, as though it were waiting. For what, I couldn’t say. 

“It’s not attacking,” Dr. Miles said, his voice barely audible. “It’s… observing.” 

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “We need to leave.” 

“We can’t yet,” Emily replied, her voice shaking. “We have to document this.” 

I understood the importance of what we were seeing—this was a discovery unlike anything the world had ever known. But the rational part of my brain was screaming at me to get out, to surface, to put as much distance between us and that thing as possible. 

The creature shifted slightly, and for a moment, I saw its eyes—huge, black, and unfeeling. They reflected the lights of the sub like twin voids, as though they could swallow the entire ocean. 

“We need to leave. Now,” I said, louder this time, panic rising in my chest. 

Emily didn’t argue. She engaged the ascent, and slowly, the sub began to rise, leaving the creature behind. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed. 

And in the depths of my mind, a terrible thought began to form. 

What if it’s not the only one? 

The oppressive silence of the ocean weighed heavier than ever as we prepared for another descent. My heart pounded, a rhythm of dread that wouldn’t settle. The memory of that immense creature watching us lingered like a shadow, darkening my thoughts. Yet here we were, descending once more into its domain. 

Emily checked the controls, her hands shaky. “Sonar’s clean,” she said, her voice hollow. “For now.” 

Dr. Miles adjusted the data logs beside me, but I could tell his mind wasn’t on them. He was scanning the dark depths as though waiting for something to emerge. We all were. 

“Let’s make this quick,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. 

The submersible sank deeper, the cold blue light of the surface fading as we descended into the abyss once again. Each meter felt like a countdown, the atmosphere thickening with every second. The creature had made its presence clear last time—it wasn’t happy. We had intruded once too often, and now, with every dive, the tension grew more palpable. 

“I don’t like this,” Emily whispered, though no one responded. We all felt it—the invisible threat lurking just out of sight, ready to strike. 

The eerie hum of the ocean filled the sub, a reminder of the miles of water pressing down on us. The whale bones loomed again in the dim light, but this time, we didn’t stop to marvel. We all felt the growing unease, the sensation that something unseen was closing in around us. 

And then the sonar blipped. 

Just a single, small ping. 

My stomach dropped. “It’s back,” I said. 

The creature hadn’t shown itself yet, but I could feel it. The hairs on my arms stood on end, a primal instinct warning me that we weren’t alone. 

The submersible rattled as the ocean currents shifted, or at least that’s what I tried to tell myself. Emily adjusted the thrusters, her fingers trembling on the controls. “It’s moving faster this time,” she muttered. 

I leaned forward, eyes glued to the viewport, straining to catch ...

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Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gc2edm/the_unexplored_trench_part_2/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Iwannatakeanap94 on 2024-10-26 00:38:34+00:00.

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I watched my coworker get arrested and then found out he had a sinister plan for me.

I worked with this man for a little over three years. We worked pretty closely on some projects over the last two years and even sat near one another at work. In September I showed up and saw about 10 detectives at my place of work. I was a bit startled as this was quite unusual for my area. I looked around and saw that my coworker was in handcuffs and looked quite disheveled (which wasn’t out of the norm to be honest). I walked up to the detectives, introduced myself and let them know who I was in relation to him. I asked what was going on and they filled me in on why he was currently being arrested. For the sake of the case I won’t share more than he was a disgusting person.

Over the course of the next 3 hours I watched as they dismantled his work station, went through his belongings, took evidence pictures and so on. I was pulled in an out of rooms answering questions about his character, what I knew of him and my feelings about him as a person. I told them he gave me a weird feeling in my gut. That I’ve always told my husband I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops ever did come looking for him. That my husband even thought he was weird, and if I ever went missing that he’d be the first person to be suspected (didn’t realize how real this almost was).

The detective on site told me that they served a search warrant at his home and were looking there for any evidence. It sounds like they found more than they anticipated and were looking to see if there was anything else, unrelated to what they were currently investigating. I was asked my name and my husbands name for confirmation for something they found- which I did think was odd but I let it go and called my husband to update him on the happenings of the day thus far. However, the last hour I was pulled in for the final time and advised by one of the lead detectives, who couldn’t even look at me, that I needed to ensure I was safe and protected in the event they didn’t book him that day. Come to find out, he had been journaling about me over the course of at least a year. Saying he wanted to be with me but the “problem” was that I was married.

His journal then lined out a plan to set my husband up for “cheating” on me. And the end resulted in my death- caused by him (my coworker). The officer said that everything in between was more vile than he’s ever heard- to the point he was crying when he was telling me to make sure I was safe… crying- A DETECTIVE- and didn’t want to “scare” me. Thankfully, he was charged and it looking at a long long time in prison. But I still think about it. It keeps me up at night. It just shows you never really know someone- even your coworkers.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StopMeBeforeIDream on 2024-10-25 20:47:52+00:00.

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I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with it.

Really. I mean it. I ain’t a detective. I wasn’t looking for answers. I kept to myself all my life; I just wish I could’ve been left alone in turn. Even when the bodies started going missing, I kept my head down. Grim stuff, for sure. But what was I supposed to do? 

I guess it’s old-fashioned now - maybe a cliche, but I’m a small-town guy. I go at a slower pace than most folks, I've never lived anywhere other than my hometown, and I've never regretted. At least, I didn’t before. 

Sure, I knew Dr Geller. We grew up just a couple of streets apart. Even if we were on the other side of the tracks, so to speak. He was younger than me, but we was in all the same classes. Me held back a year, him pushed forward. They kept pushing him forward. He was out of state and going to college by the time he was 16. Duke, I think it was? Yeah, Duke. He became the... oh, what was it?  The Dean of Surgery there. I saw that on Facebook once, before he came back. 

Makes sense he’d be a great surgeon. He was a smart guy, and he didn’t let blood bother him. I remember when Ernie Masters caught him right across the face with a lunch tray. There was blood all across the ground, but he didn’t seem troubled by it. You know, I think that was the only time we really talked as boys. After I pulled Masters off of him and took him to the nurse's office. Maybe it’s cause of that, that I helped him out that once, that nothing happened to me. 

Outside of Facebook, I never heard anything else from him for going on twenty years. I got my carpentry apprenticeship and worked in Mr Henderson’s workshop in town for a couple years. Course, it went out of business when an Ikea opened twenty miles down the highway. I kinda scrambled around looking for work, and I just happened to get the custodian job at my old school. 

Can’t say it's what I had in mind for myself. Cleaning up kids’ trash, and the boys’ bathroom is like the pit of hell. Still, I’m the only custodian they ever had who had carpentry training. The principal got me a cake when I repaired the basketball court floor. Saved the school an easy $3000! So it ain’t bad really. I know the grounds better than anyone, and I been here longer than almost anyone else. Seen three principals move along. Four now, I guess. 

Long as I’d been there though, never thought I’d see Dr Geller come back. Remember I said I’m a small-town guy? Well even before he was gone, Bill was for the big city. Feels weird calling him Bill, considering what I seen him do. Guess it ain’t right to call him doctor either. I didn’t know it at first, when he came back, that he weren’t a doctor anymore. 

No one knew what he’d done to get his license taken away. There was rumors, course. But I thought I had too much sense to listen to those. People said something about experiments. Blood taken from medical students or something. We never talked about it when he came back. Never talked at all. I can’t even say whether he even knew it was me who helped him out with Ernie Masters. Even when he became my colleague. 

Quite a change, going from the Dean of Surgery to a local biology teacher. Going all across the country back to his hometown. But I don’t think that’s any great mystery. Least weird thing about the story if you ask me. It weren’t no secret that his wife had died; cancer, of course. So now it were just him and Nina. 

Poor Nina. She was a real nice girl. Always cleaned up after herself. Even apologized when I had to clean up the mess her friends had left behind in classroom, and helped me tidy it up. See, it’s kids like her that make me have a little hope. I see the worst parts of kids doing what I do. 

Now I seen the worst parts of fathers too.

I was just as broken up as everyone else when I heard the news in the staff-room. That poor Nina had been hit by a car. Going trick-or-treating, I guess. Whatever high school juniors do on Halloween night. Course, they caught the guy that did it – drunk driving, bastard. I saw what it did to Dr Geller though. Just broke him apart. 

He was gone for months. Never saw him on the street or at the store. Some thought he might’ve left town completely. I know he did for a while, but he came back eventually. Even went back to teaching. But everyone knew he weren’t the same. 

He was snappish. Cruel, with teachers and students alike. Made Henry from Art cry once. Course, that would’ve gotten him let go, but what was the principal supposed to do? The man had lost his wife and daughter. How could he kick him out of his job too? 

Principal Harper quit recently, after it all happened. I seen him at the bar. He’s there most nights now. We both are. I mean, how was he supposed to know? I’m the one who should’ve known. 

So yeah, the bodies. 

I guess the first one was most shocking. Exhumation. I didn’t know the word before. Now it's a part of the local vernacular. As common a saying as any. Wilbur Hutchings, an old man, dead a couple of months, was dug up from the local cemetery. And his body was missing. 

Cops were everywhere of course. It got a lot of attention across the state. We’d get a lot more of both in time. National press. Journalists swarming the graveyards, keeping a closer watch on the town than the cops and the sheriff’s department combined. The podcasters were the worst though. The “true-crime" leeches, and the paranormal investigators. I have a little sympathy for them at least. It's all bunk what they say, all that yapping about vampires, but at least they’re barking up the right tree. 

Henry Ortega was next. Not a local boy. A young man, dug up from the nearest military graveyard. Veteran, dead from an Oxy OD, and not two weeks in the ground. And from there it only got worse. Cops hadn’t even taken the police tape down from the cemetery when the next graverobbing happened. 

It was Nina. 

Course the town and the school were abuzz. Horrified, afraid. And Dr Geller was in the midst of the it all. He looked as stern and hard as a statue. He didn’t take time off though. And he was meaner than ever. Never said anything to me though. 

And attention was only on him for so long, because the spree only went on from there. Just a week after Nina’s taking, bodies were going missing across the county. Just days apart, always just after burial. Cemeteries everywhere had police standing guard. Vigilantes too; bereaved family members standing vigil armed with guns and baseball bats. 

That poor guy, Chris Marsh? Got killed by a jumpy family. Just for walking his dog at night by the graveyard. 

Still, the bodies were going missing. Three of them. And the trend was obvious. All young women, like Nina. 17 to 20. There was awful speculation as to why, like you’d expect. God, how I wish I didn’t know the real reason. Worse than I ever let myself imagine. 

I guess I can’t blame those families or the police. They were trying to protect the dead. But surely they had to know that they were forcing his hand. That he’d had to make new, unguarded bodies. 

They said that Clara’s death was a suicide. She was Nina’s friend, and all this misery was around her. Nothing strange about it. But I know it wasn’t true. She was killed. Her body taken from morgue before they could find out what got her. 

And Becky. Poor Becky. Another student from my school. Attacked by coyotes? I saw the state of her. No dogs could do that. You know why she wasn’t taken? Why she stayed in the ground? Because there wasn’t enough of her left to take. 

I never wanted it to be me that found out the truth. There was detectives and feds from all across the state in town. It should’ve been them who went into the gym that night. 

Maybe it was always supposed to be me that caught him. It's not like the clues weren’t there. And I was the one who had the best chance to spot them. There was the car parked in the school parking lot, even after I left after locking the door behind me. Who would be parking in school parking so late at night?  

Worst of all was the key. Yeah, I lost the key to the basement. I knew it was gone months before. And I didn’t tell anyone because I kept losing things and didn’t want to get another earful from the principal. And it's not like there was anything there that anyone wanted. Ancient year books and long abandoned lost property. 

But it was from there that I heard the scream. 

I was cleaning the basketball court again, later than I normally did, and I almost missed it. A scream. A girl’s scream. I was sure I’d imagined it. But still had to stop and listen. I probably stood there for a full minute of silence, straining my ears. But when I heard it again, I knew there was no mistaking it. A girl in pain; and under my feet. 

I started calling to her, looking for a way to find her. I opened the old sports cupboard. All the gear and gym mats had been pushed aside, revealing the old trapdoor I hadn’t used in years. It was locked, like it was supposed to be, and even after what I’d heard that almost convinced me that I just hadn't had enough caffeine. 

But then I heard the sound of the saw. That sound I know so well. And then the shriek again.

I’ve got a crowbar in my office, only for emergencies. But I wasn’t going to go running for it. I got a claw-hammer from my toolkit, jammed the hook under the edge of the door and wrenched it open. 

The stench was just awful. Blood and shit, covered up by that awful sterile hos...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gc4cp1/why_did_it_have_to_be_me_who_found_the_bodies/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Derrinmaloney on 2024-10-25 16:16:11+00:00.

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I have a strange fear. You’ll probably laugh when I tell you what it is, but you might feel differently after I tell you why I have it.

I suffer from cucurbitophobia: the fear of pumpkins.

Fears as specific and irrational as that usually begin in childhood, and sometimes for no reason at all. But let me assure you, I have a very good reason to fear them.

I sit here now, typing this story as the living remainder of a set of twins. My name is Kalem, and I’ll tell you the tragic story of my brother, and the horror of what happened in the years since his untimely death.

It happened when we were young, only eleven years old. We were an odd pair to see - we had the misfortune of being born with curious cow’s licks of hair on top of our heads that would put Alfalfa from The Little Rascals to shame. Our mother (much to our chagrin) called us her “little pumpkins”, on account of our hair looking like little curled stalks. Our round little bellies didn’t exactly help either.

I was the calmer of us both, being reserved where my brother Kiefer was wild. He was the one who blurted out the answers in class and couldn’t sit still. The risk-taker, the stuntman, the show-off. It usually fell to me as the older and wiser sibling to watch out for him, though I was only a few minutes older.

We were walking home one blustery autumn evening, the trees ablaze with gold and orange as we huddled up from the chill of a cloudless dusk. Piles of leaves had been swept from the paths in the fear that they’d make an ice rink of the paths should it rain. The piles didn’t last long as kids kicked them about and jumped into them for fun.

Kiefer of course couldn’t resist, running headlong into the first pile he saw.

It happened so fast. Upsettingly fast, as death always does; without warning and without any power on my part to stop it. The swish of the leaves were punctuated with a crack, and autumns earthen gown was daubed in red.

A rock. Just a poorly-placed rock, probably put their as a joke by someone who didn’t realise that it would change someone’s life forever.

The leaves came to rest and I still hadn’t moved. A freezing breeze blew enough aside for me to see what remained of my twin’s head.

Pumpkin seeds.

It was a curious thought. I could only guess why the words popped into my head back then, but I know now that the smashed pumpkins on the doorsteps of that street seemed to mock my brother’s remains. How the skull fragments and loose brain matter did indeed seem to resemble the inside of a pumpkin.

I shook but not from the cold, and I suppose the sight of me collapsed and shivering got enough attention for an ambulance to be called.

I honestly don’t recall what followed. It was a whirlwind of tears, condolences, and the gnawing fear that I would be punished for failing to protect my little brother.

Punishment came in the form of never being called my mother’s little pumpkin again. I was glad of it; the word itself and the season it was associated with forever haunted me from that day on. But I never thought I would miss the affection of the nickname.

At some point I shaved my hair, all the better to get rid of that “stalk” of mine. I couldn’t bring myself to eat in the months after either, but that was okay. The thinner I got, the further away I could get from resembling my twin as he was when he passed, and further away from looking like the pumpkins that served as an annual reminder of that horrible day.

Every time I saw pumpkins, even in the form of decorations, I would lose it. I would hyperventilate, feel so nauseous I could vomit, and I was flooded with adrenaline and an utterly implacable panic to do something to save my brother that I consciously knew had been gone for years.

People noticed, and laughed behind my back at my reactions. Word had inevitably spread of what happened, and I reckon that people’s pity was the only thing that saved me from the more mean-spirited pranks.

For years, I went on as that weird skinny bald kid that was afraid of pumpkins.

I began to go off the beaten path whenever I could in the run-up to autumn, taking long routes home in a bid to avoid any places where people might have hung up halloween decorations.

It was during one such walk that the true horror of my story takes place.

It was early June; nowhere near Halloween, but my walks through the back roads and wooded trails of my home town had become a habit, and a great sanctuary throughout the hardest years of my life.

It was a gray day, heavy and humid. Bugs clung to my sweat-covered skin, the dead heat brought me to panting as woods turned blue as dusk set in. Just as I was planning to make my way back to my car, I saw a light in the woods. Not other walkers; the lights flickered, and were lined up invitingly.

Was it some sort of gathering? Candles used in a ritual or campsite?

I moved closer, pushing my way through bramble and nettles as I moved away from the path. A final push through the branches brought me right in front of the lights, and my breath caught in my throat.

Pumpkins. Tiny green pumpkins, each with a little candle placed neatly inside. The faces on each one were expertly carved despite the small size, eerily child-like with large eyes and tiny teeth.

One, two, three…

I already knew how many. Somehow I knew. The number sickened me as I counted; four, five, six…

Don’t let it be true. Let this be some weird dream. Don’t let this be real as I’m standing here shivering in the middle of nowhere about to throw up with fear as I’m counting nine, ten… eleven pumpkins.

My sweat in the summer heat turned to ice as I counted a baby pumpkin for every year my brother lived for. A chill breeze that had no place blowing in summer whipped past me, instantly extinguishing the candles. I was left there, shivering and panting in the dim blue of dusk.

No one was around for miles. No one to make their way out here, placing each pumpkin, lovingly carving them and lighting each candle… the scene was simply wrong.

I felt watched despite the isolation. So when the bushes nearby rustled, my heart almost stopped dead. I barely mustered the will to turn my head enough to see. More rustling.

It has to be a badger, a fox, a roaming dog, it can’t be anything else.

But it was.

A spindly hand reached forth, fingers tiny but sharp as needles, clawing the rest of its sickening form forth from the bush. Nails encrusted with dirt, as if it dragged itself from the ground.

A bulbous head leered at me from the dark, smile visible only as a leering void in the murky white outline of the thing’s face. It was barely visible in what remained of dusk’s light, but I could see enough to send my heart pounding. Its head shook gently in a mockery of infantile tremors, and I could feel its eyes regard me with inhuman malice.

The candle flames erupted anew, casting the creature into light.

Its face was like a blank mask of skin, with eyes and a mouth carved into it with the same tools and skill as that of the pumpkins. Hairless and childlike, it crawled forward, smiling at me with fangs that were just a crude sheet of tooth, seemingly left in its gums as an afterthought by whatever it was had carved its face.

From its head protruded a bony spur, curved and twisting from an inflamed scalp like the stalk of a-

Pumpkin.

All reason left me as I sprinted from the woods. Blindly I ran through the dark, heedless of the thorns and nettles stinging at my skin.

The pumpkin-thing trailed after me somehow, crying one minute and giggling the next in a foul approximation of a baby’s voice. I didn’t dare look behind me to see how close it got to me, or what unsettling way its tiny body would have to move in order to keep up with me.

Gasping for air and half-mad with fear, I made it to my car and sped back to the lights of town. I hoped against hope that I could get away before it could make it to my car… hoped that it wouldn’t be clinging underneath or behind it…

It took me the better part of an hour to stop shaking enough to step out of the car.

Nothing ever clung to my car, and I never had any trouble as long as I remained away from those woods. But that was only the first chase.

The next would come months later, on none other than Halloween night.

I had, by some miracle, made some friends. I suppose that in a strange way, that experience in the woods had inoculated me to pumpkins in general. After all, how could your average Halloween decoration compare to that thing in the woods?

My new friends were chill, into the same things I was into, pretty much everything I could want from the friends I never had from my years spent isolating. I even opened up to them about what happened to me, and my not-so-irrational fear, which they understood without judgement and with boundless support.

And so when I was ultimately invited to a Halloween party, I felt brave enough to accept; with the promise of enough alcohol to loosen me up should the abundant decorations become a bit much for me.

On the night, it wasn't actually that bad. I was nervous, as much about the inevitable pumpkin decorations as I was about being out of my social comfort zone. As I got talking to my new friends, mingling with people and having some drinks, I began to have fun. I even got pretty drunk - I didn’t have enough experience with these settings to know my limits. I began to let loose and forget about everything.

Until I saw him.

I felt eyes on me...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Hobosam21 on 2024-10-25 16:56:36+00:00.

---

Previously

My town is in shambles, and I feel some of the fault is my own.

For the past 40 hours I have been at my desk fielding calls from all over the area. People are hurting, dying. And there’s so little I can do.

When they can someone from Greenbrier PD will drop off food, water and fuel for the generator. The call center must stay open, it’s something that has been ingrained into us as far back as middle school.

It's why the pay is so high, it’s why the building is built like a bunker. But generations of ease have led to things being neglected. Equipment that should have been updated was ignored, maintenance left undone.

I need a break, I get an hour of sleep here and there but the phones are always busy. There’s been a call for volunteers but no takers yet.

By now everyone has heard that I’m alone here, that everyone else that worked here is missing.

I heard the mayor made a call to our governor, but as in times before we were told to handle our own affairs. We really are on our own.

I haven’t updated the board, I haven’t filled out reports. I don’t know how this will affect things in the future but I simply don’t have the time.

All missing persons calls are being forwarded to the church turned shelter on Hugh Everett Avenue. That way I can focus on the people who need immediate help.

In the last hour I talked a mother through putting a tourniquet on her child’s leg when a stray bullet came through their wall shattering the bone and severing an artery. A man who needed an ambulance after his dog, who had been laying there peacefully suddenly exploded taking the man’s arm with it. Then there was the case of someone claiming a raccoon had gotten into his gun cabinet and stolen a valuable M1 Garand.

That last one wasn’t worth the polices time, not with everything else going on.

Jordan showed up, I couldn’t believe it. He walked in looking no different than normal. He went to his office, organized a few things then came back out.

“Take a break Kylie, you’re tired and your work performance is reflecting it. I’ll man the phones for the next couple hours”. I just stared at him, the voice in my headset sounded muted.

With an annoyed sigh Jordan walked over and pulled my headset off of me and put it in himself. “This is Greenbrier 911, sorry for the inconvenience could you state the nature of your emergency?”

I wanted to hit him, I wanted to scream. I wanted answers, but I needed sleep. In my current state of mind I doubted I would even understand anything he had to say.

I made my way to the lobby, to my surprise there was an air mattress with a blanket waiting for me. That’s not all, there was a table with food and drinks. Most disturbing was the stack of my own clothes folded on the floor.

It was almost enough to make me stomp back into the call room and demand an explanation. But that bed was too welcoming.

I don’t know what time it was when I went to sleep, and I don’t know how long I slept for. When I woke up I had to pee so bad I’m surprised I made it to the bathroom. After shedding five pounds of monster and coffee I felt a lot better.

Leaving the bathroom I saw Jordan was still manning the phone. I didn’t miss the stack of reports neatly organized next to him.

He briefly glanced in my direction. “Don’t even start Kylie. We have a lot of catching up to do”. I slapped him hard enough to knock him out of his chair. He looked stunned for a moment. A little bit of fear cut through my anger as Jordan stood up, I was suddenly aware of just how isolated we were. He looked down at me, “I could fire you for that”.

I humphed in disbelief, “really? And who would take my place? It’s time to start talking Jordan, who’s blood is that? Where is everyone? And why were you in my house?”

The phone rang, Jordan reached for it but I hit the cancel button. “Start talking or I’m out”. He was pissed, the slap had been a minor annoyance, but hanging up really set him off.

“Kylie you are so inconceivably stupid sometimes, the call center has to stay open. And that’s means answering calls!” Jordan pushed me back before hitting the redial button.

I let him field the call, someone likely needed help after all. But as soon as he was done I was going to rip into him.

The second I saw the green light go out I dropped my ultimatum on him. “Tell me what is going on or I’m leaving, you’ll have to handle everything yourself. Sooner or later you’ll pass out and the phones will go unanswered”.

Jordan watched me with cold eyes, “as for the people who will die, you are ok with that? Because that is what leaving would lead to”.

He had me and he knew it, I tried a different approach. “Jordan will you please just tell me what you know? My life has gone to hell the last month and I would appreciate some answers”.

We sat in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I don’t have all the answers. Or even a lot of answers, the things you’ve dealt with aren’t hell on earth. That would be the thing you let out of that room. We have to take the calls, I don’t know why but I know things get a lot worse if we don’t answer the phones”. Jordan stood and walked to his desk, he opened a drawer and pulled out a paper.

It was a check list, no more like a list of rules.

1. The station must be manned at all times, if for any reason the station is left absent immediately take shelter until the situation is remedied.
2. All incomplete calls must be redialed as soon as possible.
3. The power must remain on at the station, take any action necessary to achieve this.
4. Do not enter ________ unless required.
5. This station is the fourth and final barrier, as such it shall receive the utmost attention at all times. I pointed to the fourth rule, “why is that blacked out? Where can’t we enter? And what does five mean? Seriously this just adds more questions”.

Jordan took the page and walked back to his desk where he locked it away. “I don’t know Kylie, maybe it’s the basement? Maybe it’s somewhere entirely different. As to rule five, I have a hunch as to what two of the other barriers might be”.

“Wait… this place has a basement??” Jordan nodded, “yeah, there’s an access outside. It’s locked up tight though, looks like it’s been that way for a long time”.

I was glad that was the case, I wasn’t ready to face anymore basements. Not yet at least.

“Ok, what are the other two barriers? And what are they barriers against?”

“Really? Do I need to spoon feed you everything? What two places have the most red pins around them?” I glanced at the board but I really didn’t need to, I already knew. There were two obvious clusters, one in the woods at the top of a hill and the other just outside of town.

“And the third?” Jordan looked at the map, “I don’t know, but if those two clusters are two of them. And we’re the fourth I would assume the third would be where there is no cluster at all”.

I followed his gaze, Darkwood Park.

“The government building?” The section of Darkwood that was fenced off didn’t have a single pin, causing it to stand out from the rest of the area.

Just then the phone rang, Jordan held out the headset. “Your turn”.

I took it, “don’t think I’m done here, I’ll have more questions in a minute”.

As I sat to handle the call Jordan walked into the lobby.

“Greenbrier 911 what is your emergency?”

“There’s a crucifix in my thigh!” Yelled a male voice with a bit of an accent. “Ok sir, let’s get a few details and get some help on the way. Did someone do this to you or was it self-inflicted?”

“Ah hell you think I’d do this myself? Naw lady, I just woke up with my leg a burning and BAM! By golly there it was, a cross under my skin”.

“That’s definitely a situation where we can help, what is your location and name?”

“Al Smith, my friends call me Big Al. I’m in my house down by Radio Lane, you know, the road that goes to the radio station”.

I punched in his info and sent it to Greenbrier FD, “I have help on route, could you help me understand how this might have happened?”

“Listen little lady, I live two miles from the radio station on subsidized land. Need I say more?” He really didn’t but I wanted to keep him on the line until help arrived or another call came in.

“I understand how that could…” I was interrupted by the callers pained yelp, “oh sweet baby ray! It’s a growing!” His breathing grew stressed, “where them at lady? Where them at? Ahhh owie it’s hurting!”

I bumped his call up an urgency level, “help is on the way, can you describe the situation so I can have them briefed when they arrive?”

The caller groaned in pain, “it… It’s… By golly!”

There was a thunk, like the phone had dropped to the ground followed by whimpering.

“Sir? Sir are you there?” A single gasp was my only reply. Still, I remained on the line until the paramedics arrived.

I heard them pounding on the door and announcing their presence. When there was no reply I confirmed they were in the right place, they kicked down the thin door.

“What the fuck?” Exclaimed one of the two medics. The other one shushed him, “hey get a move on, he’s still alive”. I had to piece together what was happening by the sounds. It wasn’t until I heard a chainsaw fire up that I really began to grow concerned.

I was able to grab a few details from the fire departments dispatch. The medics had arrived to find a 56 year old man unconscious in his dilapidat...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Head_Sherbert_2594 on 2024-10-25 14:28:25+00:00.

---

Nothing but flickering light poles rising out of the fog. Was this the right theater? I sat in my car, taking another look at the flyer.

Come one, come all! Don't miss the premiere of The Burning Woman - the horror film critics are calling "the scariest thing you'll see all year." This Friday, October 3rd. Be a witness. Be a believer.

"110 Willow Creek Drive," I mumbled, reading the address on the bottom right -- precisely where the GPS brought me. The neon sign burned blue and purple, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I stepped out, a soft mist pooled around my feet, the sky painted with moonlight.

To say this theater was trapped in the nineties was an understatement. The teal, purple, and pink geometric shapes on the wall was straight out of Saved by the Bell, and muffled synthwave played from the speakers. I stepped inside, smells of buttery popcorn wafting in the air, whirrs flowing out of the arcade.

"Hi. One for The Burning Woman, please." I smiled at the guy behind the booth, a droopy-eyed employee bored out of his wits.

"That'll be 18.50."

Seriously? I pursed my lips and slid him the money. This was the premiere, after all. Which begged the question: "Where is everyone?" I asked. "This is 110 Willow Creek, isn't it?"

A rippp sliced through the air as he swiped the ticket from the printer. "That's right. You're just a bit early." I glanced at my watch: Eleven-thirty PM, half an hour before showtime.

"And the other showings?"

"We're only showing this tonight." A lopsided smile swept across his lips, accentuating a crescent scar on his right cheek. "It's a very special screening."

"I see."

The man asked, "Are you waiting on anyone?"

I shook my head. "I just moved here from Denver. I was out hiking at Flat Iron yesterday, and I saw the flyer on the trail. Since I have nothing better to do..." I shrugged. "Here I am."

The truth was, I needed something, anything to take my mind off of what happened. Her scream; that shrill, blood-curdling cry for help was seared into my brain. Red aspen. Steep cliffs. Red aspen. Steep cli--

I shook the memory away.

"Denver?" He whistled. "You're a long way from home. Tell me, how does Copper Creek compare to the big city?"

A couple strolled inside, a blonde in a pink designer coat and a muscled man with sunglasses on who seemed more like a bodyguard than her boyfriend.

"Well, um. I love the outdoors," I said. "It's nice to get away from the hustle and bustle."

"Isn't that wonderful. Well, Auditorium Twelve is to your left." He stuck his hand out, but when I went to grab my ticket, he clamped down and said, "You know what happened in there, don't you?"

"In where?"

"Auditorium Twelve."

My eyes narrowed. "No. What?"

He scoffed, empty chasms for eyes, then released his grip.

"Enjoy the show," he said.

What the hell?

Before I could question him further, the couple shoved me aside and ordered their tickets. The girl leered her eyes my way. Heat bubbled in my upper chest, and if I were the old Autumn, this Insta-perfect couple would've gotten a verbal lashing. New-and-improved me, however, chose to grit my teeth and walk away.

I headed toward the snack bar. The rattling of a popcorn machine greeted me---pop, pop, popping, while a slushie machine whirled beside it. Out of nowhere, it began to sputter and leak blue goop on the floor, spilling out profusely with no end.

A wiry, frizzy-haired employee ran to the scene. Armed with a bucket and mop, he cleaned up the mess while huffing, "Shit, shit, shit!"

I suppressed a laugh. "Need a hand?"

"Nope, I'm good!" He nearly slipped as he battled the phantom slush machine, blue staining his Century Cinemas t-shirt. This seemed to be a regular occurrence, judging by the way he finessed switches in the back. With a final gurgle, the leak stopped.

"See?" He heaved a sigh. "Nothing to worry about."

"Does that happen a lot?"

"You'd be surprised." He wiped blue dots from his already-freckled face. For a skittish little dweeb, he was actually pretty cute. "So, what can I get for you?"

I tapped my chin.

"I'll have a Fanta and a box of Raisinets."

"A woman of culture," he quipped. While pouring the soda, he asked, "Have we met before?"

"I don't think so."

"Hmm, you're probably right. I pride myself in knowing most of the folks that come through those doors. Small town and all. You must be new here, I'd definitely remember your face."

I blushed. "Guilty. I moved here last week."

"Let me guess, you go to Willow Barr Institute?"

Two for two.

"Is it that obvious?" I said.

Despite being a small town of five thousand with only a handful of traffic lights, Copper Creek was home to a notable art school founded by Willow Barr, a local artist whose works became world-renowned. The institute drew in students from around the nation, and apparently, with my oval glasses, floral shirt, and corduroy pants, I stood out as one.

"In a good way." He slid my order over. "My name's Jonathan."

"Autumn. Nice to meet you." I shook his hand, sticky from the slurpie attack.

"Sorry about that." He wiped his palm.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Auditorium Twelve," I said. Instantly, the shine on his face faded. "What's wrong with it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The guy at the ticket booth. He, um, said something happened in there."

"Who, Larry?" He gave a dismissive pssh. "The guy just likes to mess with people. You know, rile them up before a horror movie. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Really?"

"Hand to God." He gestured. "One time, he told people not to eat from the popcorn machine 'cause flesh eating amoebas were going around. This was during the screening of Cabin Fever in Space."

I held in another laugh.

"Ahem." An irked voice hit the nape of my neck. I turned to see the couple, their arms crossed. The girl said, "You two gonna chit chat all night?"

The fervor returned to my chest, but I pushed it down and said, "Sorry. I'll get out of your way."

She made a shooing motion with her hand. "You do that." Her boyfriend swung his arm around her, a proud look on his face. I sipped my Fanta and walked away, hearing them sound off their order. Mr. and Mrs. Plastic weren't worth it. Having been around similar types, I learned not to let their brand of misery drag me down.

LED lights in the hall buzzed and flickered. I looked at my ticket: Auditorium Twelve. I could still picture his face, the guy at the booth. The way his cheek twitched upon saying "Enjoy your show." I rubbed my forearms and exhaled. "It's just a pre-movie prank," I thought. Get it together, Autumn.

After rounding the corner, the auditorium came into view. I walked in and exited the tunnel, and curiously, someone was already there. The person sat in the furthest row in the back, wearing a gray hoodie, head tilted down. The dimmed lights made it hard to see their face. I walked up the stairs, finding my seat in a lower section.

I could've sworn there were no other cars when I pulled up. Wasn't I the first one here? The urge to turn around hit me, but I resisted.

I shoved some Raisinets in my mouth, watching local ads pop up on-screen. "Need to decorate your cabin? Call Bo's Taxidermy. We have deer, wolves, bobcats, you name it!" "Looking for artisan carvings? Look no further than Wynn Woodworks. From hand-crafted furniture to stylish decor, your home will win -- with Wynn Woodworks."

A wave of goosebumps flared on my neck. An icy, bitter chill, alerting me that I was being watched. He's watching you, my intuition warned. The guy in the hoodie. I was moments from turning around, when a large countdown appeared on-screen, buzzing with static.

FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO...

There was a scene of a quiet forest, red and gold aspens in the background. I sat up, eyes wide. A gust of wind swayed the autumn canopy like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Hypnotic. Familiar. Then, a hiker with brown curls appeared, trekking by herself.

My stomach twisted. It wasn't just any hiker, it was me. My Highlander backpack, striped leggings, purple water bottle. There was no mistaking it. I was watching myself on-screen as if someone had recorded me from afar, skulking between the trees, zooming into my face.

I rubbed my eyes.

"What the f--"

The snobby couple walked in, breaking my gaze. And when I looked up, the local ads had returned, leaving no trace of the inexplicable scene. My cheeks were red hot, my pulse going into overdrive.

Did I imagine all of that?

The couple sat a row ahead of me, and a minute later, three more moviegoers entered, boys no older than sixteen. They were throwing popcorn at each other and filling the gloomy auditorium with their banter. They were in the same row as the couple, and before they sat down, one of them---a gym shirt-wearing jock with shaggy TikTok hair---sent a cheeky wink in my direction.

I nearly barfed my Fanta. It was hard to believe that only three years ago, I was one of them -- a teenager. I looked back on my high-school days like a war vet reminisced about combat. TikTok guy sat down, snickering with his friends. As  he did, I focused on a moon-shaped scar on his neck, similar to the one Larry had.

Jonathan, the messy-haired dweeb from the snack bar, walked in with a bucket of popcorn.

"Hey." He sat beside me. "You forgot this."

"Uh, I didn't order that."

"You didn't?" He placed it on my lap. "Oh ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/longnosedhare on 2024-10-25 09:10:04+00:00.

---

I’m not sure if I remember bringing Lily home anymore.

That first day was like a dream—a beautiful, blurry haze of exhaustion and love. I cradled her in my arms as Ben opened the front door, and we stepped into a life we had only imagined for so long. The house, which had always seemed a little too big, felt perfect now, like every corner had been waiting for her. We placed her in the crib we’d painted together, pale blue with little white clouds floating across the walls, and just stared. Our daughter. Our family.

But something wasn’t right, even then. I didn’t notice it at first, too lost in the chaos of diapers and sleepless nights, but looking back, the signs were there. Subtle, creeping in like shadows you don’t see until they’re right next to you. Sometimes the nursery felt... off. The crib wouldn’t be quite where I left it. The rocking chair would seem to have shifted a few inches from where it was the night before. I blamed it on exhaustion, on the constant fog of new parenthood.

Then Ben gets the call.

It’s late afternoon, the sky outside a soft gray, and Lily is asleep in my arms. Ben’s in the kitchen, talking to the hospital, his voice casual at first. Then it changes. Lowers. I hear him say, “That can’t be right.” My heart stutters, and I hold Lily closer, her little body warm and solid against me.

When he walks into the living room, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“They’re saying there’s no record of Lily’s birth,” he says, his voice shaky. “No birth certificate, no medical files... nothing.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me it’s a joke, but he doesn’t. The room feels colder, smaller, like the walls are closing in. I can still feel the pain of labor, still remember the bright lights of the hospital room, the nurses’ faces, the moment I first heard Lily’s cry. She’s here, isn’t she? I can feel her breathing against my chest, her tiny fist curled around the fabric of my shirt.

But there’s no record. No proof she was ever born.

We spend the next few days trying to make sense of it. I call the hospital, again and again, but the answer is always the same. “There’s no file for Emily Carter. No record of a birth. Are you sure you were at our facility?” They ask, as if it’s a mistake I’m making. As if I could forget giving birth.

And then the paperwork disappears. The discharge forms, the birth certificate application we had on the kitchen counter—all gone. Ben and I tear through the house, searching every drawer, every folder, but it’s like they were never there. The pieces of our reality—our life with Lily—are slipping away.

The nights are the worst. That’s when the whispers start. Soft at first, like a breeze rustling through the walls, but then louder, more insistent. I think I hear voices coming from the baby monitor, but when I check, there’s only static. Lily cries out in the middle of the night, but when I rush to her crib, she’s silent, her big eyes staring up at me as if I woke her instead of the other way around.

And then there are the strangers.

The first one appears at the edge of our driveway one morning, a tall man in a black coat, just standing there, staring. I watch him from the window, my heart pounding, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t approach. Just stands there, watching our house. I try to tell myself it’s nothing—just a passerby. But then, the next day, there’s another. This time, a woman. Same place. Same vacant stare.

It doesn’t stop. Every day, a new face at the edge of our property, watching, waiting. And then one of them knocks.

It’s a man this time, tall and thin, his skin almost gray in the early morning light. I open the door, my pulse racing. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t introduce himself, and his voice is low, mechanical.

“Where is the child?” he asks.

I blink, tightening my hold on the door handle. “Excuse me?”

“The child,” he repeats, his voice cold. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

I slam the door, heart pounding, locking every deadbolt as if that will keep him out. But he’s not the last. More come. Each one stranger than the last, their words more cryptic, their eyes more hollow. They all ask the same thing: “Where is the child?”

Ben wants to call the police, but what could we possibly tell them? That people are standing outside, demanding a baby they insist isn’t ours? We’re afraid they’d think we’re losing it. But maybe we are.

Because the worst part, the part I’m too terrified to admit out loud, is that I’m starting to wonder if they’re right.

Some nights, when I look at Lily, I feel this strange disconnect, like I’m looking at someone else’s child. Her birthmark, the one on her leg, fades and reappears like a trick of the light. And sometimes—just for a moment—I forget her face. The details blur, and I can’t remember the exact curve of her nose or the shade of her eyes. I’ll blink, and it all comes rushing back, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.

Tonight, I wake up to silence. The house is still, too still, and I realize with a jolt that I haven’t heard Lily cry in hours. I rush to her crib, my heart in my throat, but when I reach it, the crib is empty. My breath catches. Panic swells in my chest, and I call for Ben. He’s already up, searching the house, but there’s no sign of her. She’s gone.

Just as I’m about to break down, the doorbell rings. I freeze, my heart thudding in my ears. Ben moves to the door, opening it slowly. A figure stands in the doorway, cloaked in shadows, cradling something in their arms.

“She was never meant to be yours,” the figure says, their voice echoing in the stillness.

I reach out, desperate to take Lily back, but the figure steps away, disappearing into the night.

I have no clue what happened to my baby, or if she ever even existed at all. My memories of her are starting to fade. I can barely remember the sound of her cooing, or the color of her eyes. I need help, I need someone to help me figure out what's going on.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-10-25 01:44:19+00:00.

---

It started innocently enough. A glance here, a smile there. Grace sat two rows ahead of me in that stuffy lecture hall, her head tilted in concentration, fingers twirling a strand of dark hair. But it was her lips, painted a deep, velvety red, that I couldn’t shake from my mind. They were always perfect, like they could leave an impression on everything they touched. I couldn’t focus on anything else.

I tried to talk to her every chance I got. We bumped into each other after class, at the library, and once even outside the dining hall. Each time, she’d smile, those red lips drawing me in like a moth to a flame. For weeks, I made excuses to be where she was. After a couple of months, I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, her voice soft but playful. The way she smiled at me, the way those red lips curved, sent a chill down my spine, but I wrote it off as nerves.

We went out for coffee, and soon that turned into late-night walks, study sessions that lasted way too long, and eventually, we were dating. Things were good at first. She was beautiful, smart, and mysterious in a way that kept me hooked. But as the semester ended and summer rolled around, things began to change. Grace began to change.

It started small. She became possessive, always wanting to know where I was and who I was with. At first, I thought it was cute. She cared, right? But then it escalated. If I didn’t respond to her texts fast enough, her replies would turn nasty. She’d accuse me of ignoring her or seeing other girls. Sometimes she’d show up at my dorm, unannounced, demanding to go through my phone. It was unsettling, but I still told myself it was no big deal. Relationships had rough patches, right?

One night, I woke to a soft tapping on my bedroom window. It was a ground-floor dorm, so I assumed it was a branch or maybe the wind. Groggy, I got out of bed and pulled the blinds open.

There she was. Grace, hanging upside down, her body dangling from the roof above. Her hair fell toward the ground, her eyes wide with an eerie calmness. And her lips, still painted that deep red, split into a grin.

"Gotcha," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass.

I screamed, falling back and scrambling for the door. She laughed as she climbed back up, disappearing into the dark. I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. The next day, she acted like it was just a prank, something silly to mess with me. But there was something in her eyes that chilled me, something cruel.

It didn’t stop there. She started messing with me more often. One weekend, we went on a trip to the lake with my family. It was supposed to be a relaxing getaway, but Grace had other plans. She found my dad’s shotgun in the cabin, loaded it, and pointed it directly at me.

"Bang," she said, smirking.

I froze. My parents were out on the water, and it was just us. Her finger hovered over the trigger for a second longer than it should have before she set the gun down, laughing like it was all a joke. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had been just a fraction of a second away from pulling it.

She wasn’t the same Grace I had fallen for. Or maybe she was, and I had just ignored the signs.

The final straw came one night after she chased me around the house with one of the kitchen knives, her face twisted in something that was both rage and joy. I managed to lock myself in the bathroom, but she stood outside the door, banging on it, screaming my name.

"You think you can leave me?!" she shrieked. "You think you can get away from me?!"

The police arrived after I finally managed to call them. When they got there, the house was quiet, and Grace was gone. They searched everywhere, but she had vanished without a trace. They didn’t believe me about the shotgun, or the knives, or the time she dangled from my window like a nightmare come to life. Of course they didn't.

That was two weeks ago. They still haven’t found her.

Tonight, I left work late. The parking lot was nearly empty, my car sitting under the flickering streetlamp. As I approached, I saw it. A lipstick mark, a perfect red kiss, pressed against the driver’s side window.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Hobosam21 on 2024-10-24 12:39:56+00:00.

---

previously

Reaching over I opened my glove box. Fishing out a pack of battered and stale Marlboro Reds I placed one between my lips and lit it.

I inhaled the toxic chemical concoction. It soothed my nerves and tickled that part of my brain that craved nicotine despite more or less quitting a year prior.

The rifle felt good in my hands, heavy and solid. .308 if I wasn’t mistaken, 20 round magazine with 13 shots left. Not great but it would have to do. Having finished my cigarette I tried the ignition. To my surprise the truck started.

I put it in gear and continued down the mountain road. I knew the noise might attract more of those things but I wanted to reach Lucy’s car as fast as possible. She had already been out all night alone and who knew if those things had found her.

The trucks four flat tires made navigating the rough road as difficult as riding a unicycle down a cobblestone path in the ice.

With two hands firmly gripping the wheel I turned a particularly sharp corner and nearly hit Lucy’s car. The truck stopped in a cloud of sweet smelling steam. The engine had developed a fatal knock this time.

With the truck turned off I listened carefully before exiting the false security of the cab. Birds sang in the trees around me, the sun was out and welcoming. Save for the hiss of my overheated truck one could convince themselves that all was fine.

Knowing better I went to Lucy’s car. The white Audi looked entirely unharmed. I noted the open driver’s door, no damage though. Lucy had left the vehicle willingly, or at least it appeared so.

Inside was another story, the drivers seat had a large amount of mud on it. The interior stank horribly. The keys were in the cup holder. I pressed the start button and the engine came to life with a quiet purr.

I turned it back off, right behind the Audi lay a mid sized tree. With enough momentum the car might be able to get over it but there was no guarantees it would survive. I decided that would be a problem for later, first I needed to find Lucy.

Now I’m no tracker, I hunted some as a teenager but nothing that would have prepared me for something like this.

Luck happened to be on my side, the wet ground had clear boot prints leading into the woods heading in a northern direction. Even a novice like me could tell by the spacing that Lucy had been running when she left her car.

Tall ferns grew under the towering evergreens obscuring my line of sight. The air filled with their scent as I pushed my way through. The constant cracking of dead branches under my boots had me in edge, anything within a dozen yards would hear me coming.

Lucy’s trail grew hard to follow after just a couple minutes, the soft blanket of pine needles left no foot prints. With nothing more then broken stems and kicked up soil I felt like I was doing little more than guessing.

I had been traveling for an hour before I got solid confirmation. A small log lay half submerged in moss, on the far side of it were two distinct hands prints in the dirt. Lucy had tripped over the camouflaged trunk in the night and had fallen to her hands and knees.

With renewed hope I pressed on. An unforeseen annoyance was all the spider webs. They hung invisible waiting to snare my face in their sticky tendrils.

As mid day approached I was once again doubting myself. It was when I paused to assess my position that I heard the trickle of nearby water. I took my knife and marked the trunk of the nearest tree so I could find where I left off.

I needed a drink desperately, I hadn’t realized until now just how long it had been since I had eaten or drank. I followed the sound, a small brook flowed down hill nearby. The water was clear and crisp.

After drinking my fill I was about to rise when the feeling of being watched came over me. I scanned the forest, my crouched position didn’t give me a decent view but I didn’t want to stand up just yet.

My leg twitched and I felt a cramp coming on, so much for holding still. I slowly rose, my hands gripping the rifle firmly. The sun peeked out from behind the heavy clouds illuminating the forest floor.

Something in the distance hissed loudly, I heard the snapping of branches and pig like grunting. I had the rifle butted up to my shoulder instantly. I scanned the area I thought the sound came from.

Nothing moved, the woods were still. The birds had vanished along with any insects. The only sound was that of the gurgling brook behind me. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I wanted something to happen, anything to break this stalemate between me and the unknown entity in the trees.

Sweat began stinging my eye, I didn’t dare lift my hand from the rifle to wipe my brow. Ever so cautiously I took a step backwards. I followed it with another, I didn’t care when my boot filled with water from the brook.

Only when it had been twenty minutes without another sound and I had gained a decent distance between myself and the brook did I breath easy.

In my mind I had known the woods were dangerous, but the uneventful morning had caused me to drop my guard. That would not happen again.

But now I had lost Lucy’s trail, I would have to cross the brook again in order to find it once more. Not willing to make things easy for the beasts I walked down the mountain a ways before cutting across. It didn’t take me long to find the trail again as I had my previous tracks to follow as well.

Once again I began the painstakingly slow process of deciphering where Lucy had gone. I would have to constantly back track after missing a tiny detail. I was so focused on my job at hand and on looking out for any hostile animals that I didn’t notice I was circling back towards the road.

I was in a virgin area, I hadn’t walked through there before but I was definitely facing towards the road now. My self doubt started to grow, had I involuntarily turned around? Or had Lucy made a big circle in hopes of returning to her car?

Having no other easily discernable choice I pushed onward. I soon found myself walking along a jagged gully, the earthen crack was too wide and too deep to be crossed without a lot of difficulty. Unfortunately the ground alongside it was hard packed dirt and rock.

I followed it north for a distance but found no signs Lucy had gone that way. Turning around I went south an equal distance without any luck. I knew it was a hail Mary but the road was to the north so I started in that direction once again. To my elation I found a clear boot print in the dirt just a few yards past where I had turned around previously.

In the back of my mind I was very aware of the sun’s trajectory. I needed to pick up the pace or else I would be spending the night out here. And that was not an option.

I knew moving at a brisk walk would be risky, I might pass up a vital clue. But I was not willing to end up as monster chow. The increased speed seemed to play directly into my growing paranoia, I felt watched. I thought I heard the scuff of nails on rock.

My body wanted me to run, to escape the unseen danger. I willed myself not to. I had to concentrate on remaining calm, my heart rate had already grown and I was sweating again.

This was not a good place, it was then that I noticed the lack of animals. No squirrels or birds. Just an awful odor rising up from the gully. An odor reminiscent of a wet dog and carrion.

My resolve to find Lucy was weakening, what good would I do her dead? I had my doubts as to the honesty of the sheriff’s department. Would they even report her missing if I didn’t? Would I be doing more good leaving the area and getting a large group of people to help search?

Leaving was easy to justify, it was logical even. Rain began to softly patter onto the ground. The cool liquid running down my back was a welcome discomfort. The clouds that brought the rain darkened the air considerably. It felt much nearer to dusk than I liked.

I paused, my eyes attracted to the possible movement ahead. Brush obscured my line of sight but… no there it was again! Something was moving, it was a pale tan. Instinctively I dropped to a crouch.

There was a gap between two trees in the direction the thing was traveling. I raised the rifle into a ready position.

The thing was moving slowly and deliberately, it was silent as I tracked its cautious progress. The tiniest glimpses of color were all I had to go off of. It approached the gap, I readied myself for my first chance to see one of these things clearly.

It paused at the gap, almost as if sensing my presence. A small patch of color was visible through the ferns. I debated putting a round into it while I still could. It shifted and I lost my visual.

A bit of brown hair crept past the tree, it was nearly five feet off the ground. I hesitated, something wasn’t right. I lowered the rifle just as pale human face turned in my direction.

I made direct eye contact with her, Lucy looked at me with disbelief. She stepped out from behind the tree. The once white button up she wore was soiled with dirt and green streaks. Her jeans were torn at the knees, she looked like she had gone through hell.

She waved me over unwilling to leave the cover of the trees. I glanced in each direction before jogging to her. We both crouched low, Lucy whispered cautiously, “Clint what are you doing here? And how did you get a gun? You’re on pr...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gb1nfo/i_inherited_some_property/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/QLVincent on 2024-10-24 23:56:36+00:00.

---

[Hey, all. I’m posting here based on the recommendation of a friend. I frequently travel the Appalachian trails in my home state during the summers; sometimes alone, sometimes with a group of friends. What I’m about to detail here was my experience last week, as it left me baffled and searching for any shred of rationality in the face of the irrational. 

Apologies ahead of time for being sparse on concrete details. I've been a bit shaken from the experience, and all over the place as of late. I also want to keep the location a secret for now. It comes from a selfish place, as I want to be the first to break the case if this ends up being genuine evidence of something… super-natural. I’m hesitant to use that word, but I have no idea what else it could be at this point. I also don’t trust people to not come over here and tamper with the area for a funny joke at my expense. As for what I found…

I was walking through a deeply forested trail, when the walkable path curved sharply into a dead end. Not a natural one, either. It was like a bomb had gone off in the area. There was a large pit in the center, as if a drill about 30 feet wide dug 50 feet down. Trees surrounding the area were either lopsided or fallen, but all of them had intense fire scarring.  

In the center of the pit, at the bottom, was a leather journal. On the front cover, someone had carved the words “THE HEART OF MAN”. Looking inside, there was something on the inner binding that had been scratched off. From what I’ve read of the journal so far, I assume it to have been the name of the owner and a phone-number. Written above this damaged portion, “Sun”. Surprisingly (given the state of the surrounding area), the journal was incredibly intact besides that. All the actual written pages seem to be completely undamaged and legible.

I’m not sure how long it’s been here, but the trees have had enough time to heal and grow back their leaves from whatever happened. It was on top of… some sort of skeleton. I think it’s an elk skeleton, going off the skull. Massive thing. 

I’ll try to upload a picture of the journal when I can. I’m working with a laptop and a mobile hotspot in the middle of nowhere, even loading up this website took a substantial amount of time. In the meantime I’ve been reading through the journal and transcribing it as I go. I’ve done a general search of the surrounding areas, but none of the maps I have match the description the writer has given so far, so I assume this journal has traveled quite a ways to get where it is now. 

My hope is, by sharing this with you all, you might be able to pick up on stuff faster than I have, or find things I missed. I’ve read ahead to the second entry, so after I post this I’ll be moving based on what I found in it. When I’m settled into the new area, I’ll post the next entry. Sorry if I’m sparse until then, I’ll try to read your comments and reply when I can.

Until then, here’s the contents of the first entry.] 

May 30th

If you are reading this journal, I hope it was by my own choice to show you the words penned here. I see it as critical to record my thoughts on paper, should I never be able to relay them by voice. I hope I’m speaking these words to you directly, as a changed person, wiser from the experience. If I’m not, and you’ve discovered this in search for me, or are carting me off to the morgue, I’m sorry. Thank you for at least managing to find this, so I am not simply another voice lost to the woods. I’m a fool, compelled by curiosity to search for knowledge despite common sense, warnings, and ill omens. 

If you’re reading this, I have a few things to ask. Please do not follow in my foot-steps. Satisfy your curiosity if you like by reading this, but contact the police immediately. On the inside of the binding, I’ve written my name, as well as how to contact my family. Give it to them, so my story does not go untold. 

A year ago, my uncle went missing. 

None of my family knows where he went. While no one wants to say it out loud, a lot of us have been making peace with the fact he's likely dead. 

My uncle was a strange case. Not in a bad way, mind you. He was just… anti-social. Kept to himself. Never texted anyone unless it was necessary. He'd show up once a year to family gatherings, share a few words with us (mostly with my mother) over drinks and dinner. Though, he only started attending these gatherings the year after my grandfather (his father) passed.

After that, he'd be gone again. For a whole year. He lived on about a dozen acres of Appalachian forest he owned. He had moved out when my mother went off to college, working every job he could to afford to escape from the world onto his own piece of land. When my mom and I visited his place years ago, I mostly remember being consumed by boredom. Like any dumb teenager glued to their cell phone, I didn't understand why he'd want to live so reclusively and detached from the city. 

But, I get it now. There’s a harsh, violent noise to city life. You get used to it when you live in it, but it’s hard not to feel like a cog in the machine when you spend day after day inside it. It offers its conveniences, but has its downsides, as well.  I can't say for certain whether my uncle was better off for secluding himself from the modern world, but I do understand it. Though, if he hadn’t been so reclusive, there’s a good chance we wouldn’t be mourning him right now. 

There was a manhunt for him, of course. County police searched for him. We searched for him. The police never found anything pointing toward foul play. And, while the wilderness has plenty of dangerous predators, my uncle was an experienced outdoorsman. He knew all there was to know about surviving in the area he lived in. Had there been a freak accident, or some animal attack, the search parties certainly didn't find any trace of it. 

He was here one day, and the next he had stepped off the face of the Earth. 

The search efforts weighed heavily on my family, especially my mother. She took his disappearance the hardest. If anyone could get him to pick up the phone, it was her. After hours of bounced calls, day after day, she ended up finally breaking down. She knew something had happened. Worse, she knew there was nothing she could do about it. I’ve spent mornings, afternoons, and evenings doing my best to comfort her. The tears came at random, and frequently. I didn’t blame her for it, I just did my best to help. 

She told me a lot of stories about him in his absence. It paints a distinctly different picture compared to the uncle I knew. 

The one that sticks out in my mind is a trick he'd always do to cheer her up. When she was feeling down, he'd make a makeshift tent out of blankets and pillows. Afterwards, he'd invite her in and close it up. He'd ask her where they were. When she'd answer "Home, duh", he'd correct her. Actually, they were deep in a mysterious Appalachian forest; far away from the suburbs, far away from the problems troubling them. He'd paint a vivid picture of the foothills and the strong trees that sprouted from them, descriptions straight from botanical books and trail guides he collected. He'd mime as if he were listening for animals and mimic them with his voice. This is always what got her to start smiling again. The impersonations were so bad, she'd burst out laughing at them.

As my mom shared these charming anecdotes and family stories, I felt a knot in my stomach forming; the familiar, twisting pains of regret. It made me realize how little I knew the man. Can’t blame him for that, though. I was always more interested in trading cards and video games than the forests he was so fond of. If I had been more conversational myself, moping less about being stuck somewhere so “boring”, I could have known him better. 

What those stories made clear, was that beyond his reserved exterior, he cared deeply for his loved ones. I wish I got to know him better. Or rather, I wish I had taken the time to reach out more and get to know him better. Although he kept to himself, I could have tried to connect with him more. It’s likely I don't have that opportunity now. 

My mother painted a more complete picture of him, but it felt disjointed from the man I grew up knowing. He kept a lot about him close to his chest, even with her. She told me as much. From what she said though, he didn't seem like the kind of man to leave his sister, his best friend, alone like this. It felt like there was a missing puzzle piece in the jigsaw of my uncle's identity. That inherent mystery about him lingered in my mind, making me reflect more and more about his disappearance. There had to be more, something that my mother didn't know. 

As she recalled our time spent with him, my thoughts returned to his log home in deep Appalachia. The memories of that endless expanse of forest came back to me in vivid detail. Now though, the recollection was tainted by my uncle's disappearance. I recalled the towering oaks and pines, the luscious hickory trees scattering sunlight between their leaves. In these tranquil woods, I saw them as looming sentinels, guarding buried secrets. The comfort of a campfire felt like a pointed transgression against them. The smell of damp earth brought to mind all the death and decay that enriched its soil. It was hard to clear the black clouds coloring these memories, the recent tragedy blowing a terrible storm-front to smother them. The forest itse...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gbh2f1/appalachian_journal_part_1/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/hunteryumi on 2024-10-24 21:48:09+00:00.

---

The first time I heard about the kids, I thought it was just another one of those small-town ghost storiesᅳsomething people use to scare tourists or the occasional curious college kid passing through. But I'm not a tourist. I've lived in this town all my life, so when I got hired to babysit for the Croft family, I didn't give a single shit about those old rumors. The money was good, and I needed cash.

The Crofts lived in a big, old Victorian house just outside the town limits, surrounded by nothing but woods. I got there around six; Mr. and Mrs. Croft had already left, but they left instructions: “Keep them inside after dark. Don't open the windows. Don't feed them after 7 PM. If they cry… don't go upstairs.”

Alright, so that was my first red flag. But hell, I've had some weird gigs beforeᅳrich people are always a little off, right? The kids, Emma and Finn, were quiet but cute. We played some board games, ate pizza, typical babysitting shit. I kept checking the clock, though. Six thirty… six forty-five… As seven approached, I felt this weird itch in my brain, like something wasn't quite right. That's when Finn asked for a snack.

“Nope, kitchen's closed,” I told him.

His face twisted into something… strange. Like a mask. Not a temper tantrumᅳhe didn't scream or cryᅳjust this blank, eerie stare. Emma, who had been so quiet, whispered, “It's almost time.”

My stomach knotted up. “Time for what?”

“You'll see,” she said, smiling like she knew something I didn't.

I checked the clock. 7:01 PM. That's when the crying started.

It came from upstairs.

Soft at firstᅳjust a whimpering. The sound of a child, maybe younger than Emma or Finn, but I knew they didn't have any other kids. I was about to brush it off when Finn stood up and said, “Don't go upstairs.”

“I wasn't planning to,” I muttered, but the crying got louder. Louder. Now it wasn't just crying. It was screaming. Pain-filled, blood-curdling screams that echoed through the house like something was being torn apart.

“I'm calling your parents,” I said, grabbing my phone.

Emma shook her head, her face pale. “It won't help. It never helps.”

My hands were shaking as I dialed, but before the call could even connect, the phone died. Screen black. No signal. Nothing. The lights flickered, dimmed, then went out altogether. The only light now came from the moon filtering through the thick, old curtains.

The crying was unbearable now, almost like it was inside my skull, drilling through my brain. I turned to the kids, ready to make a run for it, when I noticed something that nearly stopped my heart.

Their shadows.

They weren't moving.

I blinked, my breath catching in my throat. The kids were standing still, but their shadows… they were shifting. Twisting, distorting, stretching across the walls like something was crawling out of them, trying to claw its way free.

And then I realized it wasn't their shadows. It was something else. Something inside them.

“You need to go,” Emma said, her voice suddenly deep, like something ancient and hungry was speaking through her.

The thing in her shadow started to peel itself away from her feet, dragging its way toward me with sharp, skeletal fingers. I ranᅳstumbling, crashing into furnitureᅳmy heartbeat drowning out the screams that were coming from everywhere now. Upstairs, downstairs, inside the walls.

I don't know how, but I made it to the front door. It wouldn't open. The lock twisted, but the door didn't budge. From the corner of my eye, I saw Emma and Finnᅳstill standing there, watching. Their shadows now full, standing separate from them, crawling toward me on all fours like some grotesque animals.

They were smiling.

Something slammed against the door, hard enough to crack the wood. The crying from upstairs grew louderᅳthis horrible, shrill voice screaming over and over again: “Don't leave me!”

I did the only thing I couldᅳI ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. The kidsᅳtheir shadowsᅳwere close now. Almost touching me. They moved unnaturally, joints bending backward, bones cracking and popping as they crawled closer.

I screamed, swinging the knife wildly. It didn't matter; they kept coming, their faces twisting and contorting into expressions no human should ever make.

Then everything went silent.

No crying. No footsteps. Just silence.

I backed into the corner, holding the knife like it was going to save me from whatever the fuck these things were. Then Finn, or what was left of him, spoke: “You should've listened.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on. The shadows were gone. The kids stood there, normal as ever, staring at me like I was the freak.

I didn't wait for the Crofts to come home. I ran. I don't even remember grabbing my stuff.

Later that night, I checked the town records. Emma and Finn Croft died in a fire five years ago. The house? Burned down with them in it.

So, who the fuck did I just babysit?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Bitter_Decision_4960 on 2024-10-24 19:21:04+00:00.

---

I took a deep breath, staring at the endless stretch of dark blue water that surrounded the vessel. After months of preparation, we were finally here, poised to explore a part of the ocean so deep and untouched it might as well have been another planet. As a marine biologist, I’d spent my entire career dreaming about this moment—the opportunity to study life in the abyssal depths. We weren’t just here to collect samples or capture footage of the strange creatures living far beneath the surface. This was an expedition of discovery. We were going where few had ever dared to go. 

The research vessel, Eurybia, felt steady beneath my feet as I stood on deck, staring out at the horizon. Our destination lay below us: a recently discovered trench that hadn’t been named yet, deeper than anything on record. I could feel the anticipation humming through the crew. This was history in the making. 

“Dr. Ellison,” a voice called from behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. It was Emily, one of the younger scientists on the team. Her excitement was palpable, barely contained behind the mask of professionalism she tried to maintain. 

“We’re ready for the first dive.” 

I nodded, my pulse quickening. “Let’s do this.” 

Inside the operations room, monitors glowed with data, casting a pale light across the faces of the crew. Everyone was gathered, watching as the submersible prepared for its descent. The sub itself, Argonaut, was a marvel of engineering—able to withstand the crushing pressures of the deep ocean while keeping us safe inside. It was equipped with advanced cameras, sonar, and arms for collecting samples. Every precaution had been taken, and still, there was that faint gnawing at the back of my mind—a reminder that, despite all our technology, we were venturing into the unknown. 

“Ready, Dr. Ellison?” Captain Lawrence, our expedition leader, asked. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said with a grin, though my heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. I took my place in the submersible, along with Emily and Dr. Miles, our oceanographer. The cabin was tight but not uncomfortable, its walls lined with instruments and screens. 

As Argonaut was lowered into the water, I watched the sunlight fade, replaced by a dark blue haze. Emily was at the controls, guiding us down with practiced precision, her hands steady. 

We passed through the sunlit zone quickly, the world outside becoming a muted blue-green. Schools of fish darted by, glittering like silver arrows in the water. Dr. Miles, seated next to me, was already taking notes, his voice calm as he observed our surroundings. 

“Look at the light patterns. It’s so clear here,” he said, his tone that of a man who had done this a hundred times before. I envied his composure. 

As we descended further, the light began to dim. The creatures became stranger—more alien in appearance, with long, translucent bodies and bioluminescent patches that glowed in the darkness. Their movements were slow, almost hypnotic, as they floated through the water. 

“We’re entering the twilight zone,” Emily said, her voice soft with awe. 

I leaned closer to the window, unable to tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside. The creatures here were unlike anything we had ever seen up close. It was like drifting through another world, one where life had adapted in the most bizarre and beautiful ways to survive. 

“I’ve seen photos, but… this is different,” I murmured. “Seeing it with your own eyes—it’s incredible.” 

We passed a swarm of jellyfish, their bodies pulsing with faint, blue light. Behind them, the water stretched out into a black abyss. There was something peaceful about it all, a kind of stillness that you couldn’t find anywhere else on Earth. It was easy to forget, in moments like this, that the ocean could be dangerous. 

But that peace wouldn’t last. 

“Everything’s functioning perfectly,” Emily said, breaking the silence. “We’re almost at 1,000 meters.” 

That put us just past the edge of the twilight zone, entering a place where light no longer reached. The transition was almost instantaneous. One moment, there was a faint glow filtering through the water, and the next, we were surrounded by darkness. 

And yet, it didn’t feel oppressive. Not yet. 

“This is where things start to get interesting,” Dr. Miles said. He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the instruments. “Keep your eyes open. The creatures down here don’t follow the rules we’re used to.” 

He was right. The deep ocean was home to species that had evolved in total isolation, cut off from the rest of the world. No sunlight, no photosynthesis. Everything that lived here was an enigma. 

The submersible’s lights flickered on, illuminating the path ahead. There were fewer creatures here, but the ones we did see were… odd. Long, eel-like bodies with spines that glowed faintly in the dark. Fish with enormous eyes that reflected our lights like mirrors. I watched, fascinated, as one of them slowly drifted past us. 

“We’re going to collect some samples soon,” Emily said. “There’s a small shelf up ahead where we can stop.” 

I nodded, still entranced by the creatures outside. The descent had been so smooth, so mesmerizing, that I almost forgot we were venturing into one of the most inhospitable places on Earth. Almost. 

A small part of me, buried beneath the excitement, wondered what else might be out there, lurking just beyond the range of our lights. 

As we continued our descent into the pitch-black depths, the wonder of the twilight zone began to fade. The transition had been so gradual that it was almost imperceptible. The water around us was now a thick, inky black, as if we were floating through the void of space. The only light came from the submersible’s beams, cutting through the darkness, illuminating the strange and grotesque creatures that had adapted to live here. 

I stared at the monitor, watching the sonar map update with each passing second. We were approaching 3,000 meters—deep within the midnight zone. 

“It’s like a whole other world,” Emily whispered, her voice tinged with awe. “No sunlight, no surface life. Just… darkness.” 

Dr. Miles remained silent; his attention fixed on the various readouts in front of him. Every now and then, he’d jot down notes, but his demeanor had changed since we entered this zone. The lighthearted excitement had been replaced with a more serious focus. 

“This is where things start to get interesting,” he finally said, breaking the silence. 

The creatures we saw down here were unlike anything I’d ever seen in my career. Fish with elongated bodies and huge, empty eyes that reflected the sub’s lights. They moved slowly, as if conserving every ounce of energy, their movements almost ghostly. I couldn’t help but feel like we were intruding on something ancient, something that had been undisturbed for millennia. 

“We’re about to hit 3,500 meters,” Emily said, adjusting the controls slightly. “I’ll keep the descent smooth, but it’s going to get darker from here on out.” 

I nodded, but there was something about her words that lingered in the air—a reminder that we were moving farther away from the safety of the surface. Down here, the ocean was a crushing weight, pressing in on all sides. If anything went wrong… well, I tried not to think about that. 

The sonar pinged softly, a rhythmic sound that had become a kind of background music for us. But suddenly, there was a break in the rhythm—just for a second. The screen flickered, displaying a brief blip, something large, far below us. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. 

Emily frowned and adjusted the sonar. “That’s odd.” 

“What was it?” I asked, leaning closer. 

“Not sure. Could’ve been a whale… but we’re a bit too deep for that, aren’t we?” She glanced at Dr. Miles, who nodded in agreement. 

“We’re way beyond the usual depth for whales,” he said. “Could be a malfunction, though. Instruments can get weird down here.” 

“Right,” Emily muttered, though I could see a flicker of unease in her expression. She adjusted the controls again, focusing on the descent. I didn’t push the issue. After all, strange sonar blips weren’t unusual this far down. The pressure alone was enough to cause equipment glitches. 

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. 

 

We were deep into the midnight zone now, and the strange creatures we’d encountered earlier seemed to be fewer and farther between. It was as though we’d crossed some invisible threshold. I stared out the small porthole, my breath fogging the glass, but all I could see was the narrow beam of our lights cutting through the darkness. 

“We’re approaching the shelf,” Emily said, her voice steady. “There should be some good spots to collect samples here.” 

I glanced at the sonar again. The screen was blank—no signs of life, no movement, just a flat line indicating the ocean floor. Odd. 

“There’s not much down here,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “It’s strange… I thought we’d see more activity.” 

Dr. Miles leaned over my shoulder, peering at the sonar. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the blank screen. 

“It’s not unusual,” he said finally, though his tone was more contemplative than reassuring. “Some parts of the deep ocean are like deserts. Nothing for kilometers.” 

But even as he spoke, there was something about the silence that unnerved me. We had been descending for hours, an...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/banjofitzgerald on 2024-10-24 23:50:26+00:00.

---

My neighborhood isn't your cliche movie neighborhood. The lawns aren't perfect, kids don't leave bikes lying around on the sidewalks, and neighbors don't smile and wave as you drive by. We all kind of mind our own business, for the most part. To be honest, I don't think I've ever had a conversation with any one of my neighbors. But to my defense, my neighborhood isn't built like a traditional neighborhood.

I live in Castro Valley. Emphasis on the "valley." The entire town is built on hills. The block I live on resembles more of a roller coaster than a street. I wish I could say you get used to living like this, but you don't. My house is smack in the middle of a hill; and after a decade of living here, I've discovered that I'm a "house half uphill" kind of guy.

My ten-year-old son, Cooper, loves it here. There's a single-screen movie theater down the street, next door to that is a comic book shop, across the street is an ice cream parlor, and a few blocks over is Golfland. I'm convinced that Castro Valley was designed by a child.

Cooper had overheard my wife and I talking about how unfriendly our neighborhood felt and he had an idea of how we could do our part in fixing it. When he visits my mother-in-law, they like to go on walks. I guess a neighbor of hers has one of those Little Free Library things in their front yard. The mailbox looking thing that the owner fills with books, and anyone walking by is encouraged to trade one of their own books for one in the library. Cooper said we could fill it with all of our favorite books, so our neighbors could get to know us a little better.

He had spring break coming up, and I had vacation days lying around, so I planned on taking the week off to spend with him. I figured building the library was a great opportunity for a father-son project.

The sun was setting, and admittedly, it may have taken a little longer than anticipated to build, but there it was nonetheless. We took a step back and admired the little library that was now standing firmly in our yard. I handed him a paintbrush and told him that all the library was missing was a name. He gave it some thought, then started with the brush. When he moved away, I could see that he painted "Greenridge Road Library" in big green letters. Fittingly named after the street we live on.

The next day, I peeled myself off of my mattress and dragged my feet into the kitchen. Cooper was sitting on the couch, fully dressed, shoes tied, hair brushed, ready to go. I have weird attachments to all of Cooper's stuff. He's our only child, so every little thing of his is tethered to precious memories. I couldn't just let him put his books, which my wife and I read to him over the years, outside for strangers to take. So, I told him we would go to the bookstore to get new books to use.

Before we left, Cooper ran over to check our Greenridge Road Library. I hurried to catch up to him when I saw him jumping up and down with excitement. He screamed "Dad! Dad! Look!" And to my surprise, there was already a book sitting inside of the little library, patiently waiting for us to adopt it.

It was a Penguin Random House children's book titled: "How to Swim and Dive." It was a cute, little, vintage, book about learning how to swim. And even though it was covered in a clear, but yellowing, protective jacket; the book was extremely weathered. It looked decades old. The style of the cover art and pictures throughout the pages made me think it may be midcentury era. The once bright colored spine was cracking and had a slight tear through the "V" in the book name, giving it the new title: "How to Swim and Die." That got a guilty chuckle out of me.

The book jacket proudly wore a sticker for the Hayward Public Library. Hayward is Castro Valley's sister city, so it wasn't too surprising that a book from there ended up minutes away in our front yard. What was surprising was the fully intact checkout card still in the sleeve on the inside. The only name and date on the card were: Roger Davis on April 3rd, 1964.

Out of curiosity, I Googled the name Roger Davis. Facebook and LinkedIn profiles popped up, all of smiling young men that were half of the age my Roger Davis would be today. I tried to narrow the search down by adding "California," but no luck. I'm old enough to remember life before the internet, So I went to scavenge for The Yellow Pages book that I thought we still had somewhere.

If I had given it any real thought, I would have remembered that we got rid of our last one about five spring cleanings ago. I figured this would be the perfect time to introduce my son to the public library system. I told Cooper that we could go to the Hayward Library; since that was where the book was originally from. And we could maybe even see if they could look up any information on Roger Davis.

Although he was incredibly eager to get inside and work the case, Cooper still held the library door open for the fragile moving old man walking behind us. The librarian glared at me over the top of her thick lenses, with an "Are you serious?" look on her face. She sighed and lectured me on why she couldn't share the private information of their members, even if they had it. Which they didn’t. Those records were long gone. Also long gone: the Yellow Pages, apparently. I don’t know why I assumed the library would have them, but they didn’t. So, I ordered one on my phone to be delivered to my house and we left. On the way out, Cooper whispered to me that he'd be a nicer librarian for The Greenridge Road Library.

The following day was a hotter than usual spring day. My wife and I decided that a family day at the community pool sounded good. We didn't have a pool in our backyard, and no one else we knew did, either. And as a result, Cooper wasn't the best swimmer. But lucky for him, we just so happened to have come into the custody of a how-to swim book.We got to the pool and I had the highly important job of securing pool chairs for my family. It took me a little while to collect enough chairs. It would have taken longer, if not for the elderly gentleman who graciously volunteered his chair to me. His attempt at hiding from the sun under a bucket hat and sunglasses was failing, so he was leaving anyway. He was amused that I was carrying around such a vintage book. On his way out, he gave the faintest smile and said that he had the same book when he was younger.

I started thumbing through the pages to see if there were any good pointers that I could relay to Cooper, and I must not have looked hard enough the first time we found the book because I now noticed handwritten numbers on the bottom corner of every page. Two numbers on each page and they didn't correspond to the page number at all. The first page had "37." The next one had "66," the third page had "46," and so on; fifteen numbers in total. There was no obvious reason or pattern to the order, but they were neatly written and obviously intentional.

I'm not too proud to admit that my wife is smarter than I am, but I still felt like a complete idiot when it only took her a millisecond to glance at the pages and say "Oh, neat! It's coordinates." Of course. Why wasn't that my first guess? Cooper asked what coordinates were and when I explained them to him, he got really excited at the thought of it being buried treasure. That excitement soured to disappointment when I shot down his proposal to go chase the coordinates that exact minute. I told him we could go the following day, and then hit the biggest cannonball he's ever seen as a distraction.

Cooper shook me until I fully woke up. He wouldn't stop until I had Google Maps open. He watched with anticipation as I typed in each number of the coordinates. The pin dropped into a cluster of trees, a little ways off of the Ward Creek walking trail in the Hayward hills. To his delight, it was only a ten-minute drive away.

Cooper was so excited walking that trail. He's not an introvert, but he rarely talks to strangers. That day, he was waving and saying hi to everyone we crossed paths with. The family walking their dog got a hey from Cooper. He said "Have a nice day" to the pale-haired, old man, that was catching his breath on a bench. One jogger even got a high-five from Cooper.

I couldn't help but feel like an irresponsible parent when we reached the point of the walkway that we had to diverge off of to get to the coordinates. It didn't seem like the safest trek for a ten-year-old to make, but I couldn't stomach telling him that he couldn't see this through. As we approached the coordinates, I could make out glimpses of unnatural colors in the distance. At first, I thought it was a group of people, and slid Cooper behind me as we walked up.

Standing directly on top of the coordinates, we were dead center to a group of trees. On each tree, was a t-shirt nailed to it; creating a surrounding audience. The shirts were small, like they'd fit Cooper. Six in total. Vintage, ringer style shirts with red trim and matching red font that read "Hayward Plunge." On the inside tags, I could make out handwritten names: John, Henry, Susie, Wayne, Donna, and Jackie.

I had no idea what Hayward Plunge meant or who these names belonged to, but that didn't really matter, I was full on panicking. My fight or flight was in high gear. This wasn't the innocent treasure hunt we thought it would be. This was wrong, very wrong. I was wrong to bring my son here....

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/spirewalker on 2024-10-24 18:37:50+00:00.

---

It all started with a single pimple to on my left cheek. Large enough to notice, small enough to disregard. I ignored it and and continued brushing my teeth. I made sure to wash my face very thoroughly and went down to my car to drive to school.

But as I was backing out of the driveway, I noticed something in the rearview mirror that made me pause. There was another pimple. Slightly smaller, nestled right next to the first one. It honestly freaked me out a bit. I was pretty sure that wasnt there before. But I reassured myself that there was no way a pimple could grow that fast. I must have just missed it in the bathroom.

By the time I pulled into the school parking lot, the pimples had multiplied into a little cluster. About a dozen little orbs of puss, stuck to my face. I decided then and there that something was wrong. I skipped first period and went straight to the nurses office.

"They just came out of nowhere!" "I know it may seem very sudden, but acne is a completely normal thing for kids your age. This isnt nessesarily a typical case of acne, but its not immediately concerning. I would recommend improving your personal hygiene routine. And if the problem doesnt go away, you should set up an appointment with a dermatologist." She dug around in her cabinet for a moment. "Here," she said, handing me a large bandaid. "You can cover it up with this."

As I walked to class, I removed the bandaid from its wrapper and carefully stuck it over the cluster of zits. I felt a swell of embarassment. I probably looked ridiculous. I worried people would stare at me and laugh.

When I opened the the door to Mr. Whitlers history class, everyone fell silent and turned towards me. I was half right; People were staring, but nobody was laughing.

I felt my face flush red with embarassment. My throat burned and I bit back tears. I quickly looked down and hurried off to my desk. I pulled my hood over my head and my head on my desk. It was a solid 20 seconds before anyone spoke.

Mr. Whitler nervously cleared his throat. "Uh... as I was saying, the Native Americans alledged that the United States had violated their treaty by allowing settlers passed....." Most of my classmates attention had turned back to Mr. Whitler, but I could feel a couple gazes straggle on me.

I already knew that the reaction I got wasnt just because of a silly looking bandaid. But that didnt stop my heart from sinking into my stomach as I snuck a peak at my face in the warped reflection of the metalic table leg.

The entire left side of my face was covered in clusters of angry red zits. From the bottom of my jaw to just above my eyebrow, my skin was entirely composed of pimples, none of them more than a tenth of an inch appart. I looked like a mutated, deformed monster from some old movie. I started to feel lightheaded.

...

I waited for class to end. It felt like forever. I didnt look at my reflection for the rest of my class, because I worried that if I did, I would burst out into tears and draw even more attention to myself. When the bell rang, I pushed past everyone else and quickly walked to my car, keeping my head down the entire time.

I knew that by the time I got to the car, I would see that my face had gotten much worse. But when I got onto the jet black asphalt of the parking lot, I realized how much worse it was without even seeing my reflection.

You know how when you close one of your eyes, you can see your nose at the edge of your vision? And it looks out of focus and blurry and it obscures your vision a bit. My vision was obscurred by tiny blurry dots around my eyes, like specks of dirt around the frames of your glasses. I reached up to my face and felt the area around my eyes, and sure enough, there were zits. One protruding out of my upper left eyelid, another nestled into the corner of my right eye. Infact, now that I was paying attention, I realized that when i blinked, I couldnt close my right eye all the way.

I drove straight home. It was one of those drives that seems to last forever. It was like when I was little kid getting sent home from school early for misbehaving, and I would sit in the backseat waiting for my mom or dad to chew me out in uncomfortable silence. Except this time I was all alone.

After I pulled the car into the driveway, I turned of the engine, I googled and called around, and started trying to set up a dermatologist appointment as soon as I possibly could. Eventually, I found a doctor that could see me the next morning at 5am. After I set it up, I just sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking.

God, what will I tell Mom and Dad when they get home? What will they think of me? Maybe this was a silly thing of me to think. They were my parents, of course they would support me and try to help. But I guess part of me didnt want to see them look at me with the same look of disgust everyone else had.

It was around 1:00 when I got out of the car. I realised that I hadn't eaten all day, so I went to the kitchen and started making myself a peanut butter sandwich. I didnt have the energy to make anything else. As I sat down and took a bite, I felt a sharp pain in my mouth. I rushed over to the bathroom to take a look in the mirror.

The zits had spread from my left cheek, past the center of my face, and were starting to invade the right side. But that wasnt the cause of the pain.

Pimples had begun to grow on my lips. Not just around my mouth area, but on my lips, in my mouth. It seemed like they were made of the same sensitive skin as lips, and were raw looking, almost swollen. One of them, one of the ones on the inside of my mouth, seemed to have popped. I think it grew a little too tall, and when I went to take a bit of the sandwich, I must have bitten down on the pimple. I wiped the pus off of the inside of my lip, wincing in pain a bit.

I went back to my sandwich, taking special care to keep my lips far out of the path of my teeth. Slowly chewed through the bread until i was left with one, final piece.

But as I scarfed it down, a little piece of the bread got caught in my throat. Made sense. I was so afraid of biting my lip I must have not chewed it up properly. It wasnt big enough to choke me, it just went down the wrong pipe.

I went to the bathroom sink to try and cough it up. But it wouldnt budge. I tried hacking it up, or washing it down with water but nothing seemed to work. Infact, it felt like it was getting worse. It was getting harder to breath, and I was starting to panic. Eventually, I decided to shove a finger down my throat to try and make myself gag it up. But the moment my finger brushed up against a smooth lump of skin lodged just within my reach, I realised what was really happening.

The zits were starting to grow on the inside of my throat, and they were big, and getting even bigger. As I felt around the inside of my throat, I realized that there were more. Lots more.

Gagging, I pulled my finger from my throat, gagging and coughing. I tried to catch my breath, but I couldn't get enough air. I was being strangled from the inside. And it wouldnt be long before I couldnt breath at all. I started crying in fear, I didnt know what to do, I was dying.

I had one last reckless hope in the back of my mind. A knife. I need a knife. I threw open the bathroom door and ran to the kitchen. I frantically rummaged in the drawer before my fingers curled around the handle of a small knife. I tried to breath out, but I found I couldnt. The pimples had grown into my nostrils, blocking off all air entirely. My throat was blocked off too.

I sprinted back to bathroom, clutching the knife. I hastily stood myself infront of the mirror and opened my mouth as wide as I could, so wide it hurt. I saw the wall of flesh that formed at the back of my throat. As my head started to spin, I reached the knife into my mouth and started cutting.

The blade punctured the wall of pimples like a tomato. The pimples burst immediatly, gushing pus into my throat. The pain was immense and unbearable, I instinctivly recoiled and tried to pull the knife from my mouth but I cut a deep wound into the roof of my mouth. But I wasnt done yet. I had to keep cutting.

I sliced deeper, cutting away the zits crowding the walls of my throat, indiscriminately annihilating everything in my path. I choked and cried and screamed against the vile soup of blood and pus and saliva gathering in my gullet. I started to pass out as I felt the blade stab through my Adam's Apple. But the last thing I remember is that I just kept cutting.

...

I woke up in the hospital a few days later. Miraculously, I had survived. Mom had come home early and found me bleeding out on the bathroom floor and had immediately rushed me to the hospital.

I have stayed in that hospital for three months now. The doctors have no explaination for what has happened to me. The best explaination they have is that it must be some sort of genetic defect. They say that its probably not actually acne, that it instead might be some bizarre form of cancer. They've tried everything to fix it. They thoroughly scrub my face multiple times a day, which usually hurts. They've tried injecting me with all sorts of drugs, but none of them work.

I can't stand it when my family and friends comes to visit. I don't like seeing them cringe in horror at my condition. I havent been able to speak since cutting into my throat, and sometimes that makes me feel relieved....

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/OutsideYourWindow_ on 2024-10-24 14:50:46+00:00.

---

I first learned about the job at Pharm when I was picking up my subscription. The woman behind the counter included a pamphlet in my order. As she slipped it in the paper bag, she said looking at it would be the best decision of my life. 

“Looking at that pamphlet?” I asked. 

“How much do you pay for these pills?” she asked. 

I laughed, a little taken back. 

“Don’t you know that?” I said. “I just paid you.”

“It’s a rhetorical question,” she said, smiling. 

“I don’t think that’s what rhetorical means,” I said, taking the bag. “But, I’ll play along—$400 for 14 pills.”

She nodded. 

“And what is that a week?” she asked. 

“It’s $400,” I said, getting annoyed. 

Again, she laughed. If she wasn’t so pretty, I would have been upset. But she had a movie star look about her—big blue eyes, flowy hair, perfectly white teeth. I didn’t know what she was doing working the counter at a pharmacy. 

“That must be debilitating,” she said.

I shrugged. It was, but I didn’t want to show it. I only made $600 a week. But, without the pills, my organs will slowly stop working. The disease I had was new, but not rare—in the last ten years, it grew from a few odd cases to nearly 3% of Americans. Gastroenteritis, which was a fancy way of saying my bile was deteriorating the organs around my stomach. Like many other people, I developed it after taking a, now recalled, daily vitamin called PharmChew. I originally went on the vitamin because my doctor recommended it. I took it every day for a year, but then I started feeling sick. When I went back to the doctor a year later, he told me I had developed Gastroenteritis. The best cure for my ailment was another Pharm product—PharmiCure. 

As long as I took two PharmiCures a day, I could go on to live a long, financially poor life.  

The pharmacist leaned in toward me, snapping me out of my daydream. She looked like she had a secret to share. 

“Read the pamphlet,” she said. “Trust me. It changed my life.”

The role advertised in the pamphlet was some kind data entry position, which wasn’t too far from what I was doing currently. The pay was pretty good, but the biggest perk was that all employees got free medication. On top of the $900 I’d be making a week, I’d get back that additional $400. As I typed up my application, I thought about all the things I’d do with that extra money—I’d get to be able to finally enjoy my newfound health. 

After I submitted the application, I got an email 30 minutes later. I got an interview. Then, I got a second interview, then a third. By that same time next week, I had the job. I was ecstatic. 

All of the interviews had been over the phone, so my first day at Pharm was also my first time seeing the office. I had to go to a parking lot by the airport and wait for the shuttle, which then took me another hour south. When we reached, what looked like, the front gate, someone came out of the security booth and inspected us. He checked our pockets, work bags, and then took all of our temperature. When he was finished, he made us stand in a straight line next to the van. He had horrible posture and eyes that were never looking at the same thing. His voice was deep and gravely. 

“You’re clear,” he said. “But remember, you gotta pass through here on the way in and out. This is a high security facility.”

We all agreed, then shuffled back into the van to enter the actual complex.

In the parking lot, we all got out and made our way toward the entrance. The building was boxed and massive, its siding covered in black, reflective windows, making the whole thing look like a haunted Rubik’s cube. Around us were acres upon acres of field—no highway, neighborhood, or Starbucks in sight. 

Inside, a bubbly woman greeted us and gave us a gift bag. I looked inside mine. There was a Pharm-branded journal, some candy, and two bottles of pills. I looked up, a little taken back. I’d never gotten medicine at an onboarding before. When I looked around, everyone else was pulling out the pills too, inspecting them. 

“Remember,” she said, “all medication must be taken inside the Pharm facility.”

A guy next to me raised his hand. His armpit was dark with sweat. 

“Aren’t we supposed to take one in the morning and one at night?” he asked. 

“What about weekends?” someone else asked. 

The woman smiled. 

“Of course, your concerns are all valid,” she said. “Unfortunately, the employee provided medicine is restricted. If employees took them home then, well, we wouldn’t be able to ensure that the company provided medicine was going to company employees.”

We all looked at each other. It was annoying, but I could see her logic. Someone might just work here for the free pills, then sell them on the street. 

“I can’t come here on weekends,” someone else said. 

“Of course,” the woman said, her smile immovable. “Well, employees can buy additional pills for a 30% discount, which you can do for weekends. Or, you can come in, work a little, get your pills, and enjoy our complimentary Saturday and Sunday brunch.”

A few of the people groaned, but no one challenged her anymore. There would always be complications with any job, I thought. At least at Pharm, I’d make good money, get free medicine, and be able to enjoy the peaceful scenery. My old job was in the middle of the city, which only seemed to exasperate my Gastroenteritis.

My first day of work kept getting better and better. They gave us free breakfast and lunch, plus unlimited coffee and kombucha. Since I was dealing with sensitive information, I had to work in an enclosed office, which wasn’t too bad. I had a big window next to my desk where I could look out on the rolling fields. Every once in a while, the woman who checked us in would come by and drop a snack on my desk or bring me some water. At my last job, I was lucky if I got a free cookie the day before Christmas break. 

I didn’t understand what the data I was sorting meant. Each hour I would have to sort through 25 or so names, checking their “health conditions” and looking for outliers. It had their blood pressure, dietary restrictions, weekly exercise, etc.—normal stuff you would learn at an annual check-up. Then, depending on how they scored on the “health” scale, I would drop them into one of three buckets: Vitamin 342d, Vitamin x871, or Vitamin 636e. 

It didn’t make sense to me, but I figured it was above my paygrade. All I had to do was check the data, drop the names in the right folders, then move on to the next. 

When it hit 4PM, I saw my next order of names come through—now it said 50. Weird, I thought. It would be difficult to get 50 names done before 5PM, but I decided to give it the college try. I worked fast, analyzing the data as the time crept up, closer and closer to when I was supposed to leave. 

As it hit 5PM, I still had ten names left. I worked quickly, funneling the last of my work into the appropriate folders. As the clock hit 5:16PM, I grabbed my stuff, ran down the hall, and made my way to the shuttle stop. 

But, as I got there, the shuttle was gone. There was a dozen of us standing there, mostly the same people from the beginning of the day. 

“Did we miss it?” a man asked. 

I shrugged. “There must be another one,” I said. 

There was a schedule up by the door. I looked at the times. There at the bottom, it had a note in slightly smaller text—Last shuttle leaves 4PM, next shuttle arrives 7AM.

I went back and relayed it to the man. His face got flushed. 

“I only paid for the babysitter until 7,” he said. He moved past me, yelling out “hello” into the empty hallways. 

The person at the front desk was gone. All the hallways were empty. I walked up and down them a few times, but every door was locked. 

I went back to my office as the others kept yelling, running throughout the building like hungry mice. I tried not to bring that level of stress into my life—if I did, my Gastroenteritis would act up. Instead, I sat down in my chair and took a long, slow breath. 

“You missed the shuttle,” I said. “There will be another one tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes to try and calm down. When I opened them again, the woman from my orientation appeared in the doorway. She had a tray of food in her hands. I stood up and approached her. 

“Hey,” I said. “I missed the shuttle.”

“Oh,” she said. “Did you need to get back to the city for something?”

I shook my head. 

“No, I mean, just like… life,” I said. 

I looked at the tray she was holding. It was steak, potatoes, and broccoli, with a beer, can of soda, and a single pill on the side. 

“Well,” she said, “whatever you do at home, they probably have here. Video games. Sports. Television. There’s a room for everything. Plus, the nicest sleeping quarters you’ve ever seen. Come with me.”

She placed the tray down on my desk and motioned me to the door. 

As we walked, she pressed her key card onto different doors, pushing them open and revealing, as she described, every activity under the sun. The people who I’d passed in the hallways were all still here—engaged in this or that. 

“You see,” she said, “if you ever need to leave early to go home, you can take a little PTO. Unfortunately, PTO doesn’t kick in until after the end of the first year. But, if you manage to get your work done early, you are welcome to try and catch the shuttle before it leaves.”

I stopped walking. All of a sudden, I felt faint. She realized I had stopped following h...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CBenson1273 on 2024-10-24 17:10:58+00:00.

---

My husband's thirtieth birthday was coming up, and I wanted to do something special for him. He’s always a bit cagey about asking for what he wants, but this time, when I asked, he had an immediate answer.

“Would you be open to a threesome?”

…

What?

He must have seen the look on my face, because he immediately went into clean-up mode. I was more than enough for him, it was just something he’d always wanted to try, it could really spice up our love life (which was already pretty great, I thought), he understood if I wasn’t comfortable with it but he really thought it could be amazing for us - he just kept laying it on.

I told him I needed to think about it, and he seemed to understand.

After taking a couple of days and talking to my sister, I told him that I’d be willing to try it one time and we’d see how it went. He was thrilled - he immediately started going on about this one person who he knew might be open to it. At that point, I thought to myself, if her name came immediately to mind, is there already something going on? But I dismissed the thought as nerve-induced paranoia.

We negotiated some ground rules and he set up a meeting. When I got there, the first thing I noticed was how much she looked like me. He definitely had a type. We talked, and she seemed pleasant enough, so we made plans for the following Saturday night.

When Jenny arrived, we sat around chatting nervously and drinking wine (mostly me), and then we got to it. I was nervous, but I think it went ok. My husband paid sufficient attention to me, stuck to our rules, and seemed to have a good time. In the morning, we said goodbye and sent her on her way.

But then he began asking when we could do it again. I reminded him that I’d said one, but then he asked “didn’t you have a good time?” And the pressure started. I also noted that my hair was a little shorter in one spot, and there was a locket I couldn’t find. But it wasn’t a big deal - I just wanted to get back to our normal life.

The next week, we were out when we ran into Jenny at the store. We got to talking, and she asked if we’d be up for a repeat. My husband said absolutely - when we left I asked him what the hell he was doing, but he just said he thought I’d be into it. After several conversations, I gave in and we scheduled another get-together.

This one also went well, and we bid her farewell. We then ran into Jenny again the following week, and I couldn’t help but notice that she looked even more like me than she had before. Her hair had darkened to match my shade, and her lips seemed a little… fuller? Like mine. I mentioned it to my husband, but he said I should take it as a compliment - she probably just liked my look.

The next week I was out running some errands and I saw her. I started to go up and say hello, but something told me to hang back. And lo and behold, who should come walking up to her but my husband, who leaned over and gave her a kiss.

That asshole.

I decided to eavesdrop, and I heard him saying that everything was going according to plan. He said that the wine has worked perfectly and that he’d have more samples later to follow the hair and the locket. At that point, I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I had a bad feeling.

Later that night, my husband suggested another get-together. I thought about calling him out, but at this point I wanted to know what the hell was going on so I decided to play along.

When she came over this time, I pretended to drink the wine but spit it out before we started. Then we went to the bedroom. This time he seemed more into her than me, which hurt, but I was done trusting him at this point.

Afterward, I pretended to sleep. And I noticed him cutting off more of my hair and swabbing my skin, and then leaving the room with her. I tried to follow and listen, but I could only hear some of the conversation - “the process” and “metamorphosis” and “almost ready.” I went back to bed and lay down, utterly confused.

The next day, while he was at work, I went into his office and, after an extensive search, found a hidden drawer with a book entitled “How To Make The Perfect Wife.”

What the fuck?

I read a bit - it was about using magic and science to create an exact replica of your current wife, but better.

Was this real? How dare he!

My mother always said to us girls “don’t get mad, get even.” She was a smart woman - it was time I listened.

The next weekend we had Jenny over again. But this time, after we were finished, I woke up tied to a rack in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry dear,” said my husband, “but this just isn’t working out. It’s not me, it’s you. But don’t worry - soon I’ll have a better you!”

With that, he gave a potion to “Jenny” and she began to morph.

Into an exact copy of him.

The look of shock on his face was one of my favorite sights ever.

“Surprised, ‘dear?’ Yes, I discovered your ruse. Would it surprise you to learn that the last batch was filled with your DNA, not mine?”

Then I looked over at the thing formerly known as Jenny. “Kill him.” And it did. Violently.

I woke up the next morning, cuddled with James. He made me breakfast and asked about my day, all while telling me he loved me.

He was the perfect husband.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-10-24 14:06:40+00:00.

---

I’d been working for the agency long enough to know when I was being fed a sanitized version of the truth. But when they briefed me about this particular operation, it didn’t matter how much they polished it up, something about it stank. I’m a Case Officer in charge of handling…let’s just say, unusual projects. I’d been on missions that bordered on the insane, but nothing had prepared me for what I encountered.

The operation started as a civilian scientific investigation. Typical university stuff. A team of researchers from the University of Alaska Fairbanks had discovered a section of dense, remote forest somewhere on the outskirts of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. Unlike the rest of the vast wilderness, this particular part of the forest was different. It wasn’t just quiet; it was completely void of all sound. No birds, no wind rustling the leaves, no sign of wildlife. And according to the university, this eerie quietness was more than an oddity, it was scientifically impossible.

The university research team went out on a 7 day expedition to study the silent forest. When they missed their pickup time, the university reported them missing and requested the help of search and rescue teams. When the reports hit the upper echelons of government, we were brought in. The silence wasn’t just affecting wildlife. Communication devices didn’t work properly. No signals of any kind. GPS systems became erratic the moment anyone stepped foot inside the forest. Naturally, this raised all sorts of alarms for people like me, the kind of people tasked with ensuring things that shouldn’t exist stay off the public radar.

A new team was assembled, one that included me, security personnel, and a forest ecologist with decades of field experience: Dr. Jacob Holt.

Dr. Holt wasn’t some tree-hugging academic. He had spent twenty years studying environmental shifts in some of the most inhospitable places on Earth; forests, jungles, the Arctic. When I first met him, he looked the part. He was rugged, weathered, with rough skin from spending most of his life outdoors. His piercing eyes told me he was one of those men who wouldn’t break easily. Someone who had seen things.

We were joined by two operators, Masters and Greaves, there to provide security. They were the muscle, here to protect us from anything we may run into in that forest. Their faces were unreadable as they stood at attention by the helicopter, decked out in tactical gear that looked more suited for a war zone than a forest expedition.

I shook Dr. Holt’s hand as we loaded into the chopper. “You’ve been briefed?” I asked.

“Only enough to know that this forest is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he replied. His voice had that quiet confidence that came from years of experience.

As the helicopter’s rotors roared and we ascended into the skies, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something that I wasn’t prepared for.

The ride was uneventful, the view beneath us a sea of endless forest stretching in every direction. The place where we were headed was so remote, there weren’t even trails leading into it. No one had any business being out there. And yet, here we were, flying straight into the heart of it.

When we landed at the drop zone, Masters and Greaves fanned out, securing the perimeter while we gathered our gear. There was no wind, no sound except for the hum of the chopper’s blades and the dull thuds of our boots on the soft ground.

The pilot gave us a nod, signaling he’d be back in 48 hours. I raised a hand in acknowledgment, and then the helicopter rose back into the sky, its roar shrinking into a faint hum before disappearing completely.

Once the helicopter was out of sight, the silence hit us fully. It was immediate. Absolute. The kind of silence that presses in on you, makes your ears strain for any noise, any sign of life. But there was nothing. There was no sign of the university research team.

“Ready?” I asked Holt as we looked toward the forest.

He nodded, squinting into the tree line. “I’ve seen a lot of forests, but none like this.” Holt adjusted the straps on his pack, glancing at the forest surrounding us. “Welcome to the quietest place on Earth.”

The forest was dense, dark, and unwelcoming. Based on the university team’s expedition plan, we were able to determine their campsite was about 12 kilometers from our drop zone. Their camp was our first planned target.

I glanced at Dr. Holt, who was already focused on the forest ahead, his expression unreadable. Masters and Greaves seemed unfazed; their weapons held casually but ready.

Holt pointed toward the trees. “We go in, keep a close formation. If anyone hears anything strange, sees anything out of place, speak up. We’re not just dealing with a lack of sound here.”

“What do you mean?” Greaves asked.

“I mean, nature doesn’t just turn off,” Holt replied. “No, there is something causing this.”

We ventured into the forest, the thick canopy blotting out much of the daylight overhead.

I’ve been in some eerie places before, and dealt with some unexplainable things. But this… this was different. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but the absolute silence that engulfed me wasn’t it.

“Sure is something else, isn’t it?” Holt said quietly as he walked next to me. He didn’t have to raise his voice. There was no other noise to drown out our conversation, no chirping birds, no rustle of the wind through trees.

I nodded. Masters and Greaves moved with precision and purpose. Masters, the taller of the two, had that sort of casual confidence that only came with experience. Greaves seemed more skeptical, methodical, his sharp gaze scanning the forest as we walked.

But even they, hardened as they were, seemed unsettled by the unnatural stillness.

We walked all day before we made camp at the edge of a clearing, just inside the tree line. Masters and Greaves busied themselves setting up a perimeter, their footsteps muffled by the thick, spongey forest floor. No one spoke much. We were all unnerved by the unnatural quiet, even though none of us would admit it. My own thoughts felt too loud in my head, and I found myself straining to hear any sign of life.

There wasn’t any.

“Tell me, Holt,” I said as we unpacked our gear, breaking the silence. “What exactly did the university team report before they went off-grid?”

Holt crouched down to check his instruments, the faint scratching of his pen against the paper sounding oddly loud. “The initial team detected an acoustic anomaly in this region. No natural sound. It drew their attention because areas like this don’t exist naturally. At least, not for long. Animals move in, wind passes through, water flows. Something always fills the space.”

“And here, nothing,” I said, stating the obvious.

He nodded. “They sent back some preliminary data showing that the forest was absorbing sound at a rate that defied explanation. Then... their transmissions became garbled. They went radio silent three days ago. The university was funding pure research. When it got weird, you all stepped in.”

“Great.” I looked around at the silent, still forest. “So, any guesses?”

Holt was quiet for a moment, glancing at the trees, his eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t know. This isn’t my usual area of expertise. I’m a biologist, not an acoustician, but... there’s something wrong here. The air pressure feels... off. Almost like we’re underwater, but without the sensation of depth.”

Masters joined us at the fire pit, sitting on a log he had dragged over. “Feels like we’re in a bubble,” he said, his voice flat. “The air feels heavy.”

I nodded. I had felt it too, a weird density to the space, like the air was pressing in on us.

Greaves was pacing the perimeter, checking the motion sensors he had set up. He came over, his face grim. “Nothing on the scanners, no heat signatures. No wildlife.”

“No movement at all?” I asked.

“Not even a squirrel,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

We settled into an uneasy silence. The silence made it hard to focus, hard to carry on a conversation. Time seemed to stretch, and the usual sounds of a camp weren’t there to ground us. I checked my watch. It felt like we had been on the ground much longer than we had. It was as if time had slowed along with the sound.

As night fell, we set up our tents and tried to settle in. Night came quickly in the forest, swallowing the weak daylight with urgency. The silence became even more intense in the darkness.

Lying in my tent, I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and consistent in my ears. But beyond that, there was nothing. No nocturnal animals stirring. It was unnatural.

That night, I struggled to sleep.

I don’t know how long I lay there, my mind racing in the silence, but at some point, I became aware of something else. The sound was subtle at first, then grew louder. It didn’t come from the outside, but from within.

I could hear my own breathing. I could hear my blood pulsing through my veins, the creak of my joints when I moved. It was like my body had become amplified; every internal sound magnified in the absence of external noise.

I tried to shake it off, but the longer I lay there, the worse it got. The absolute silence mixed with the sound of my bodily functions made me feel nauseous. I could feel something, a strange pressure, like something was trying to squeeze out every sound, including the ones inside of me. ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gb3g4r/the_government_sent_my_team_into_the_silent/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-10-24 08:07:18+00:00.

---

Dropping in on the middle? Check out the index to find the other updates and/or start at the beginning.

You know how I keep telling you all not to come here? Well, we had a visitor today, and I think his story will serve as a good illustration of why it is both to your and my benefit for outsiders to stay the hell away.

Okay, it’s not that people don’t come and go without incident. But please, for the gods’ sake, read the room. If the gigantic board at the borders didn’t clue you in, this place is not exactly a metropolitan suburb. Things are afoot here. Be respectful, keep your head down, avoid the places that feel wrong, do what you need to do, and then get out.

But people think they know better. They think it’s all an elaborate joke, or that they can handle whatever comes. Well, something does come for them, eventually.

But I’ll get to that part later. First things first, the journal. As promised, I did try to go through it last night. Most of the journal is written by hand, and from what I read, the entries seem to be painstakingly reproduced copies of various documents that the writer has diligently transposed onto the pages in his own hand. I say ‘writer’ because the handwriting in this part is decidedly not my grandfather’s. I even went down to the study this morning to check out a few of his notes to compare, and the style doesn’t match up. In fact, almost every entry is in different handwriting. The journal has been through a variety of hands over the years, judging by the evolving vocabulary. Some of the earliest entries, in fact, are in chaste Sanskrit! I can read the script, in case you’re wondering, but I don’t understand the language. I’ll have to ask my youngest uncle for help in that regard. Some of the entries have marginal notes, mostly shorthand scrawls reflecting the writer’s opinions or inputs. I tried to read a few, but my concussed brain was already struggling to parse the larger, legible letters. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If I find any interesting accounts, I’ll share them with you.

What is more interesting, however, are the final twenty or so pages. Instead of normal lettering, these pages are a swirling well of ink. The contents keep shifting every moment, forming half-seen letters or geometric designs before fading into random noise again. The paper gives off a sickly sweet smell. Probably the same one Ram Lal was referring to, before he…

Only the first of these pages has any discernible information. Every so often, two well-defined symbols appear out of the muck, lingering for a second or two before fading away. One is a massive banyan tree. The other… a triskelion in a circle, inscriptions covering the ruin. I was up for a couple of hours last night, trying everything. I touched the pendant to the pages. I tried to look through it like a monocle. I put it under my tongue, whacked it on the cover, and rubbed it all over the pages.

Nothing.

The low light made it difficult to make out, but I managed to check the inscriptions on the rim against the illustration on the page. They are identical (kudos to my grandfather’s drawing skills, I suppose). I have the right item. I just have no idea how to use it.

You had too much faith in me, Dad.

Either way, these are the only pages that are obfuscated in this manner. My grandfather must have wanted to hide the contents from prying eyes, in this and the other. That meant these pages contained crucial information. Information needed to fight back against whatever had killed him. I don’t know what I’m doing this for anymore. Is it for the family? For the village? For myself? In any case, I have to figure out how to unlock these entries.

And I knew just who to ask about it.

The next morning, when I descended the stairs, Kirti was waiting for me. Oh, yeah. Writing ‘uncle’ was getting cumbersome, so I decided to give all three of my uncles some nicknames. Kirti is my eldest uncle, Sam is my middle uncle, and Naru, who you will meet soon enough, is my youngest uncle. These names are based on their real names, which I will not be revealing.

I won’t bore you with the details of our conversation. I apologized to him for my behaviour the previous day, but honestly, he didn’t seem too mad. Almost as if he had been expecting it. Maybe all the Thakurs behaved like spoiled brats when they were young. Either way, we chalked out a deal over breakfast: every evening, I would sit down with him and he would tell me a story about the village and its denizens. That’s fine by me. I’ve always loved stories since I was a kid. I used to keep my father up every night until he read me no less than five different bedtime stories. In any case, I am thankful to him for going the extra mile for me. As with the journal, if he tells me any good ones, I’ll be sure to pass them on to you.

The walking stick still feels so unfamiliar in my hands. I wouldn’t use it if there were any other choices, but Sam was right: I was in no condition to walk unassisted. Whenever my hand touched the contours of its aged, gnarled wood, I was reminded of my grandfather. Each and every clack of its metal tip against the floor reminded me of his presence, both physical and spiritual. Hanging over me, enveloping my life.

An unpaid debt. A legacy to fill.

Wearing his ring, using his cane, living in his house, it all felt the same. Like I was killing him a second time. Erasing the final vestiges of his presence here. I knew the others probably didn’t see it that way, but I did it. My head kept whispering the same thing over and over.

Usurper.

After my performance yesterday, it was not hard to agree with that sentiment. It seemed that, every time I did something, it got someone hurt or killed. Including me. The encounter with the begging monk was the fourth time I had been pushed to death’s door since coming here, and each time, I had only survived because someone had rescued me. Alone, I surely would have died. My own wits, strength, and resolve were far too inadequate for this place.

And I was running out of free assists.

Speaking of assists, my shoulder is fine now. The ice melted overnight, but the flesh was whole again. The only indicator that there was ever an injury there was the red, raw skin. That, and the ruined clothes. I had the servants burn the torn and stained shirt in the backyard. Ram Lal had been right. It was unsalvageable.

I had planned to laze about for a while until my appointment with the police, but as luck would have it, my meeting was drastically brought forward. I had scarcely finished breakfast when, with a great clicking of boots, a khadi-clad officer stormed into the outer sitting room. Even without looking at his shoulder boards, I could tell that he was the inspector by his cap and baton. He was a sharp young man, about the same age as me. He had the fitness and energy I had come to recognize as some combination of the wide-eyed idealism of a new entrant in the service and the excitement of a new posting. His uniform being perfectly ironed and up to code only confirmed my diagnosis.

He quickly crossed over and gave me a salute. “Inspector Samaresh Bose, sir.”

I grabbed my stick, moving to stand up. “You don’t need to salute me, Inspector. I’m not your superior.”

“Please, sit,” he urged, settling down on the chair in front of mine. “It has been the custom in this village for the police to salute the Thakur, sir.”

“Really?”

“From the station records, it appears that there is a directive in force from the time of Governor-General Warren Hastings that stipulates that all officials of the administration shall salute and give ‘all possible dignity and respect’ to the zamindars of the village.”

“It’s been a long time since the 18th century, Inspector Bose.”

“Even so, it was never withdrawn. Besides, law or no law, you are a pillar of the community. It cannot hurt to keep you in good spirits.”

I sighed. “As you will. How long have you been here, Inspector?”

“I was posted here about six months before the death of the previous landlord, sir. But my father was originally from Chhayagarh. He left for Kolkata to find work many years ago.”

“First posting?”

He puffed his chest out. “Yes, sir. Most of the constables and SIs are older than me and locals. But they have not given me any trouble.”

“Well, if you ever face any issues, do let me know. I heard of your efforts yesterday. You saved my life. Thank you.”

“I will do it as many times as necessary, Thakur.”

“That being said…” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I was expecting you in the afternoon, Inspector.”

“I am aware, and I apologize for disrupting your routine. But this is urgent.” He leaned forward. “There has been an incident that requires your intervention.”

“I’m not sure how I can assist an investigation.”

“It’s an incident of… the other kind, sir.”

I perked up at that. He must have noticed, because he continued.

“I’ve not been here very long, but the others have briefed me on the peculiarities of the beat.”

“And you’re fine with these peculiarities?”

“It was a rough first few weeks. But duty is duty. Either way, I’ve been informed that in the case of these sorts of disputes, you are the one we should contact. I had worked with your grandfather a few times, before his untimely demise.”

“All right. I suppose this is a part of the job.” I rose. “Give me the details.”

“It ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Necessary_Walrus1703 on 2024-10-23 19:51:16+00:00.

---

I remember the day I found it as if it were yesterday.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the flea market on the outskirts of our little town.

 It was the kind of day where everything seemed still, the heat lingering, pressing down on everything.

The dry, hot breeze stirred the dust, kicking up tiny whirlwinds as I walked through the narrow aisles with my dog Charlie, scanning the rows of vendors with growing frustration.

The farm wasn’t doing well this season. Pests, birds, and rodents were tearing through the crops with an almost savage determination.

Clara and I had tried everything—scare tactics, traps, sprays—but nothing seemed to keep them away.

 It was as if the very land itself was rebelling against us. Sometimes, I wonder if this was an act of sabotage by Mr Monroe, who had been greedily eyeing my land for a while now.  

But no matter the cause, the outcome was the same.

The crops were wilting, the soil dry despite the endless hours I’d spent watering them, and every morning brought more damage, more destruction. The farm was struggling, and so were we. We weren’t just facing financial ruin—this was ancestral land, passed down through 7 generations. Losing it would mean losing a piece of ourselves.

Clara’s patience was wearing thin, though she never showed it. But I saw it in the way she pressed her lips together when the kids weren’t looking, or the tightness in her shoulders when we sat down at the kitchen table to try and budget for the week.

We couldn’t afford another bad season. The stress was eating at both of us, turning our once lively dinner table conversations into tense silences.

I was desperate—grasping at straws, literally, trying to find something, anything that might help. I figured maybe this flea market would have something useful, though I didn’t know what exactly I was looking for.

That’s when I saw it.

Tucked between a pile of rusted tools, frayed ropes, and battered knickknacks was a scarecrow.

 It was old, worn out, and tattered. The kind of thing that had been through too many summers and winters, far more than it should have survived.

Its burlap face was faded, sun-bleached, and split in places, the frayed edges fluttering in the wind like dead skin peeling from an old wound. Its clothes—a pair of ripped overalls and a threadbare flannel shirt—hung limp from its crooked frame, remnants of an era long forgotten.

Despite its ragged appearance, something about it drew me in and I couldn’t look away.

Maybe it was the unnatural way it stood out among the clutter, or maybe it was the way the light seemed to dim slightly when I looked at it.

I couldn’t shake the feeling it was watching me, as if its dark hollow eyes were tracking my every move. And the crooked, stitched smile stretched unnaturally wide, almost up to its ears, as though it knew a secret I didn’t.

The scarecrow seemed to catch Charlie’s fancy too; he sniffed it cautiously before placing his paw on it, almost as if testing whether it was real.

I snapped out of my thoughts when a man’s voice suddenly cut through the eerie silence.

He was a small, hunched figure standing behind the stall, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a wide-brimmed hat. His leathery skin, deeply lined with wrinkles, hinted at a long, hard life. His face remained mostly obscured, his eyes concealed in the shadow of the hat, making it impossible to guess his age.

An instinctual urge told me to turn away—both the scarecrow and the man unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.

“You’re looking for something to keep the birds away, aren’t you?” he said without glancing up, his voice gravelly and dry. There was an accent, too, faint but old-fashioned, as though it belonged to another era.

I blinked, startled by his accuracy.

How could he know? I thought to myself.

I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say, my mouth suddenly dry. Then he looked up, meeting my gaze for a fleeting moment.

“This here’ll do the trick,” he said, gesturing toward the scarecrow with a bony finger. “No birds, no rodents, no pests. You’ll see.”

I hesitated, taking a closer look at the scarecrow.

 It looked as if it would fall apart if I so much as touched it. The wind tugged at its loose stitches, making them sway slightly, and I noticed a faint odor—musty, like damp earth mixed with decay.

“Does it work?” I asked, my voice filled with scepticism. I didn’t want to come off as too desperate, but I was.

The man grinned, revealing a set of yellowed, uneven teeth. “It works,” he said with an air of certainty that felt unsettling. “Better than you think. Just set it up in your field. It’ll do the rest.”

My gut twisted with unease and despite the creeping dread, I handed over the little cash I had left.

The man took it without another word.

I heaved the scarecrow into the bed of my truck, its hollow, straw-filled body thudding against the metal as I started my drive back to the farm.

When I got home, the sun was setting, casting an orange hue across the farm. I glanced toward the house, where the warm light of the kitchen spilled through the windows. Clara was inside, cooking dinner, while the kids helped her set the table. The smell of roasting chicken wafted into the air.

Charlie and I were immediately greeted by Sir Sunrise, a rooster, who quietly came and perched himself on the back of the truck as I parked near the front porch. He observed in silence as I unloaded the scarecrow.

Sir Sunrise earned his name from my 8-year-old son, Luke, thanks to his remarkable habit of crowing at exactly 6 AM every morning. It didn’t matter if it was pouring rain, the middle of winter, or a cloudy morning when the sun didn’t show—he always knew when it was time.

He’d march up and down the porch, his triumphant “cock-a-doodle-doo” echoing for a full minute, ensuring the entire Smith household woke to his call.

Oddly enough, that was the only time he ever crowed, even though he spent the rest of the day busily wandering the farm.

Even stranger was the quiet, almost unspoken friendship he shared with Charlie. The two seemed to enjoy each other’s company in a way that always surprised me.

I hoisted the scarecrow onto my shoulders and made my way toward the field.

The crops swayed in the soft evening breeze, rows of corn and wheat stretching out before me like sentinels.

I chose a spot right in the middle—far enough from the house but close enough that I could still watch it from the upstairs window. I attached the scarecrow to a wooden pole that was already planted deep in the soil.

It stood crooked and eerie, its burlap face staring blankly at the sky.

Sir Sunrise inaugurated the new addition in the field by performing a couple of customary laps around the pole before taking off, with Charlie eagerly chasing after him.

My eyes, however, drifted toward Mr Monroe’s factory in the distance. For years, he had been acquiring land from my neighbors, and was determined to buy my property as well. He wasn’t pleased when I turned him down.

Ever since then, my farm has suffered—my crops have been constantly under attack, making me wonder if he was in any way involved. But without proof, all I could do was continue my work and hope things would eventually turn around.

I took one last look at the scarecrow before walking back home to join my wife and kids for dinner.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned, my mind replaying the image of the scarecrow in the field—motionless, seemingly unthreatening, yet somehow menacing.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that stitched smile, wide and knowing, as though it was waiting for something.

Was I expecting some sort of miracle from it?

Is that why I felt this knot in my stomach—because deep down, I knew I was acting out of desperation and not thinking rationally.

The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, but beyond that, there was silence.

No crows cawing, no rustling in the crops. Just an unsettling, unnatural silence.

Meanwhile, Clara slept soundly beside me. I noticed the cut above her eyebrow even in the pale moonlight, a scar from her youth.

Despite her challenging childhood, she had a gift for finding peace in chaos, while I remained a light sleeper, needing exhaustion to fall into a deep slumber.

I rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around me and eventually drifted to sleep.

When morning finally came, I stepped outside, half-expecting to find the fields torn apart like before. But they were untouched. Not a single stalk was damaged.

I looked toward the scarecrow, still standing in the same spot, and felt a wave of relief wash over me. Maybe the old peddler was right. Maybe it really was that effective.

A couple more days went by, and the crops remained unharmed. Not a single bird or rodent dared to come near them. For the first time in months, I felt a glimmer of hope—a lightness in my chest that I hadn’t felt in ages.

I didn’t fully understand how a scarecrow could make such a difference—the results defied logic—but I wasn’t about to question it now.

Clara noticed the shift in my mood too and began to believe again herself. She watched our children, Emma and Luke, play among the crops, their laughter ringing through the air like music after a long silence.

It was as if the scarecrow had brought back more than just safety for the crops—it had brought back hope.

But on the fourth night, things began to ta...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/myrasam79 on 2024-10-24 05:36:43+00:00.

---

It started as a simple visit to the doctor. I had been struggling with insomnia for the better part of six months, and it was wearing me down. Late nights turned into groggy mornings, and I was walking around in a fog for most of the day. My performance at work had dipped, and I found myself making simple mistakes that I normally wouldn’t. Something had to give.

My doctor, Dr. Patel, was patient with me as I described the symptoms. We had tried some basic over-the-counter options, and I’d even tried adjusting my routine—cutting back on caffeine, dimming the lights, turning off electronics—but nothing seemed to stick. He listened as I explained how, when I finally did manage to sleep, it was fitful and broken, like my brain couldn’t quite let go of the day.

“I think it’s time we tried something a little stronger,” he said, typing something into his computer. “I’m going to prescribe you a medication to help regulate your sleep cycle.”

It sounded like a reasonable next step. I was hesitant about taking prescription meds for sleep, but Dr. Patel assured me that it was a low-dose and designed to help without any significant side effects.

“This should help reset things for you,” he explained as he handed me the prescription. “Take it about an hour before you plan on going to bed, and make sure you give yourself a full eight hours of sleep. If it’s not working, or if you feel off in any way, let me know.”

I left his office feeling hopeful for the first time in a while. That night, I followed his instructions to the letter. I took the pill, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed with my usual doubts that it would work.

To my surprise, the first few nights went smoothly. The medication helped me fall asleep quickly, and though I would wake up once or twice during the night, I fell back asleep almost instantly. It was the kind of restful sleep I hadn’t had in months.

But after about a week, things started to change.

It began with small, almost unnoticeable things—at least, things I tried to ignore. I’d wake up feeling a bit disoriented, not entirely sure how long I’d been asleep. Sometimes, I’d have vague, unsettling dreams I couldn’t quite remember. Dreams where I wasn’t sure if I was awake or still dreaming. In these dreams, I’d find myself doing normal things—walking through my apartment, getting a drink of water, or checking my phone—but something always felt slightly off. Like I was observing myself from a distance, instead of really being there.

At first, I brushed it off. I figured it was just my body adjusting to the new medication. After all, Dr. Patel had mentioned that it might take a little while to fully settle in. I went about my days as usual, and for the most part, I was just grateful to finally be getting some sleep.

Then, one night, I had an experience that left me feeling more than a little unsettled. I woke up around 3:00 a.m., needing to use the bathroom. The apartment was completely dark, and as I shuffled down the hallway, I felt like I wasn’t alone.

It’s difficult to explain, but the sensation was strong enough that I found myself looking over my shoulder several times. My heart rate quickened, but I tried to reason with myself that it was just the grogginess from waking up in the middle of the night. I returned to bed and eventually fell back asleep, though I had a lingering feeling that something was off.

The next morning, I laughed at myself for overreacting. After all, it was just a sensation. I’d lived in my apartment for two years without incident. There was no reason to think anything had changed. Besides, it was an old building, and I’d always heard the occasional creak or draft. It wasn’t unusual.

But that night, something similar happened again. I woke up suddenly, no specific reason why. The room was silent, but there was a heaviness in the air, like the atmosphere had thickened somehow. I lay still for a few moments, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. My mind was racing, trying to identify what had pulled me out of sleep so abruptly.

And then I saw it—just a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision. I turned my head quickly, but there was nothing there. Just my room, the same as always.

It had to be a trick of the mind. My rational brain knew that. I had just woken up, I was half-asleep, and the darkness was playing tricks on me. But it happened again the next night. And the night after that. Every time, it was the same. A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and then nothing.

At this point, I started wondering if it was the medication. Maybe it was messing with my perception, causing me to see things that weren’t really there. I decided to skip a dose, just to see if that made any difference.

That night, I struggled to fall asleep without the pill. It was almost as if my body had become reliant on it. I tossed and turned for hours, and when I finally did drift off, it wasn’t restful sleep. When I woke up, I felt worse than before, and I hadn’t escaped the strange sensations either. Even without the medication, I saw that same fleeting movement in the corner of my vision.

It was starting to get to me.

I couldn’t bring myself to call Dr. Patel yet. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that something was wrong, or maybe I thought I could figure it out on my own. Either way, I kept taking the pills, hoping things would smooth out again.

But they didn’t. Instead, they escalated.

The fleeting glimpses out of the corner of my eye became more frequent, and I started hearing faint sounds in the apartment at night. It wasn’t anything specific—just subtle noises like the soft creak of a floorboard or the quiet rustle of fabric. Things that could easily be explained away if I tried hard enough.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

 

I had initially dismissed it, but it’s now gnawing at me. It was that strange kind of paranoia where you know something’s wrong, but you keep trying to convince yourself it’s nothing. I kept thinking, It’s just the medication. But as the days passed, it became harder to ignore what I was experiencing.

The visions—those flashes of movement in the corner of my eye—became more distinct. Before, I could tell myself they were just shadows, tricks of the mind. But now, I could swear I was seeing shapes, like figures standing just out of sight. I never got a clear look, and every time I turned my head to focus, they were gone. But that didn't make them feel any less real. In fact, it made them worse.

I started turning on lights whenever I woke up in the middle of the night. The logic was simple: if I could see my surroundings clearly, I wouldn’t feel so unsettled. But even with the lights on, the sensation didn’t go away. If anything, it intensified. The figures might have disappeared when I switched on the lights, but the feeling of not being alone remained. It was almost as if the light itself couldn’t reach every corner of the room.

After a particularly rough night, I made up my mind to call Dr. Patel. I needed to know if the medication could be causing these side effects. Sleep disturbances, paranoia, hallucinations—anything to explain what was happening. I was anxious, but maybe I was also hoping he would reassure me that this was normal. That my mind was just playing tricks on me.

When I finally got through to him, I laid it all out—the dreams, the sensations, the glimpses of movement. I tried to sound as rational as possible, though I wasn’t sure how much of that came through in my voice.

To his credit, Dr. Patel didn’t dismiss my concerns outright. He asked about the specific brand of medication I was taking, double-checked the dosage, and even went over the side effects again. But none of what I described sounded typical to him. He suggested that I stop taking the pills immediately to see if the symptoms went away and scheduled a follow-up appointment for later that week.

I hungup feeling somewhat relieved, but a part of me was skeptical. What if it wasn’t the medication? What if something else was happening? Still, I followed his advice. That night, I didn’t take the pill.

It didn’t help.

In fact, it made things worse. Without the medication, I was back to struggling with insomnia. I spent hours tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep but never quite managing it. And yet, even in the dark, even without the disorienting haze of sleep pulling me under, I kept seeing them.

The shadows.

They weren’t just fleeting glimpses now. It felt like they were there, in the room with me, watching. I’d sit up in bed and stare at the doorway or the far corner of the room, where I swore I could see something, a figure standing silently, barely perceptible. I would blink, and it would disappear, but the tension it left behind was unbearable.

One night, after lying awake for what felt like hours, I got up and started pacing the apartment. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it was more like I couldn’t stay still any longer. The silence was oppressive. I needed to move, to do something to shake the feeling that was creeping over me.

I walked to the kitchen, half-thinking that a glass of water would help calm me down. As I reached for a glass in the cupboard, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. It startled me for a moment, seeing movement when I wasn’t expecting it. But what really unnerved me was that, in the reflection, it looked like someone else was standing behind me.

I spun aro...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Voodoo_Clerk on 2024-10-24 06:00:31+00:00.

---

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

I was apprehensive about meeting Dr. Harrison for this coffee date. The only thing that made me want to take it, was finally learning what the hell was happening. And a part of me was excited to be on a date with Dr. Harrison. Even after everything that I had seen at the clinic, including him ripping his own face off, a part of me was squealing like a teenager finally landing a date with her crush. And, even if I did quit afterward like I wanted to, I would at least finally know what was going on at the clinic. With Wilson, the patients, Dr. Harrison, everything. Maybe even the lost and found thief. 

Normally, I don’t take very long to get ready, but a part of me wanted to put more effort into this meeting. In my head, it was going to be the last time I ever saw Dr. Harrison. So I put on my nice pair of jeans and button-up, surprised that it still fit me since the last time I wore it was during my cousin’s wedding. A quick spritz of perfume and I was ready. And in my head, I felt stupid, it wasn’t like this was an actual date. But I figured I might as well take advantage of it. 

I was happy that I was allowed to choose the coffee shop and picked one close to the city and further away from the office. I wanted to be around as many people as possible and was happy to see that the shop was pretty busy. I took a seat at a table near the window to look out to see Dr. Harrison when he finally showed up, and so others could see us in case something happened during our ‘date’. I sat there and began to shake my legs anxiously as I waited for him to show up.

I didn’t have much longer to wait when I saw him approaching the coffee shop. It was so offputting to see him in clothes that weren’t his scrubs and lab coat. A turtleneck wasn’t something I ever knew he would wear, but seeing him wearing that was enough for me to immediately know that I had made the right choice in accepting this date. 

“Good morning, doctor,” I told him as I stood up from my chair when he entered the shop and walked over to me. He looked at me and gave me a soft smile, as he rubbed his hand through his brown hair. 

“You can just call me James, Maggie. We aren’t at work at the moment,” he said with a little chuckle. It was a force of habit. It’s like trying not to call your old teacher Mr. or Mrs. “Have you ordered yet? I know I have…a lot of explaining to do to you.” I shook my head and he led us over to the barista. He ordered a simple black coffee and I got a basic latte. You can judge me all you want, and you’d be right. I’m basic. 

We both sat down at the table and stared awkwardly at our coffees. It was obvious that he was trying to find the right words, so I just sat there taking small sips from my latte. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. 

“About five years ago…I was attacked.” He sighed heavily, lifting the hot black coffee to his lips and taking a small sip. “I was attacked by a patient. She wasn’t satisfied with the work I gave her. I had told her that I could no longer operate on her because she was clearly addicted to cosmetic surgery. She didn’t take the news well.” He took another sip from his coffee cup. 

“What did she do?” I asked him, trying to imagine how her attacking him had led to…everything that happened at the clinic daily. “If I can ask that, of course.” I cushioned my invasive question, but Dr. Harrison didn’t seem to mind, giving me a small little smile. 

“She threw a cup of acid at my face. Sliced it up real good with a scalpel, and as a chaser lit it on fire. The only reason I’m still alive is because Rachel threw mop water on me to put out the fire. The acid was harder to wash off.” He explained, the smile still on his face, but his eyes betrayed just how traumatizing it had been for him. 

I looked at his beautiful face and didn’t see a single scar, or any blemish. Then of course I thought back to him ripping his face off back at the clinic. And it suddenly all hit me at once. His need for skin, him coming into work with his face covered up. 

“That isn’t your real face, is it?” I asked him, placing my drink on the table to stare at him. He looked at me in the eyes and I stared into those big jewels he had. A soft swirl began to appear in his eyes, and my head began to throb suddenly. 

“It isn’t…” He looked back down at his coffee and my headache disappeared the moment his eyes were taken off of mine. “But for an entire year, I was in recovery, and even though I got reconstructive surgery…that…fucking bitch…ruined my face!” He shouted, quickly looking around at the other patrons who snapped their attention over at us. “Sorry…” he said with a heavy sigh. 

“But…if this isn’t your real face, how did you get it?” I asked him, doing my best to avoid his eyes. As beautiful as they were, something about them suddenly began to rub me the wrong way. I gripped my cup close to me and kicked myself for not getting something hotter. If he tried something I could at least throw scolding hot coffee in his face as a defense mechanism. 

“It’s…a long story.” He looked down at his cup of coffee and pushed it further away from himself, staring down at the table for a long while, as he gathered up the courage to tell me. “After she attacked me, I…lost my mind. In more ways than one,” He gave a little giggle before he quickly stopped and cleared his throat. 

“I uh…started…I uh…” He let out a heavy sigh, the embarrassment and shame he was feeling was palpable to me. “I started killing people…to give myself the satisfaction of having a better looking face. Heh…it sounds stupid when I say it…but I earnestly thought that it was helping me.” He continued to stare down at the table, while I stared at him in shock, he had broken the Hippocratic oath and the fucking law as well. 

“James…that doesn’t answer my question,” I told him, thinking he was deflecting.

“Oh I’m getting to that…see after I had killed my parents…” I couldn’t help but let out a gasp and quickly covered my mouth. “My mother…she uh…insulted my face. So I hacked her to pieces. And my dad was so in love and attached to her, that I couldn’t let him live in a world without her.” He explained with a nonchalant shrug. “But soon afterwards…I met my savior.” He explained with whimsy in his voice. 

It suddenly clicked in my head. “The man on the phone?” I asked him. He finally looked up from the table and nodded enthusiastically, his green eyes shining so brightly I thought he’d blind me. 

“Mr. Sinclair found me…and put me in touch with someone who gave me powers to…sculpt my beautiful face back.” He reached his hand to his face and let out a happy hum. He was like a giddy schoolgirl talking about her high school crush. Or like how I talked about him. “And…I’m sure you’ve noticed my beautiful eyes. It’s hard not to, I’m sure.” He giggled a little. 

His demeanor was completely different than normal. The smooth, almost aloof handsome surgeon had transformed into a deranged madman before my eyes. The ease with which he told me he killed his parents and other people terrified and all the while his eyes began to drill into my very soul. 

“You’re very special, Maggie. You have a healthy self-image, that’s what drew me to you. My eyes, they can control people with low self-esteem and people who are easily manipulated. Hypnotize them almost. But you…I can’t control you. I can suggest some things to you…but I can’t control you,” he told me, his eyes gleamed brightly and I snuck a peak at them. I stared deep into them and, to my surprise, saw spirals in them. 

“I was gifted with these eyes, and with the powers to…meld skin.” He smiled widely and suddenly he reached across the table and grabbed my hands. I flinched backward but he held onto my hands tightly. “I use other people’s skin to replace my own. And I can meld the human body into any shape that I want.” People were starting to look at us now and some were even murmuring. I prayed that one of them would come over here and get me out of this situation. 

“D-Dr? Y-you’re hurting my hands,” I squeaked in pain as he squeezed them. That seemed to snap him out of whatever state he was in. His eyes dimmed and he looked down at his own hands and he quickly let go of them. 

“I-I’m sorry, Maggie.” He told me, instantly retreating into his seat and frantically pushing his hair back into place. “I uh…got carried away.” He reached out and grabbed his cup of coffee and took a long sip from the cup. I rubbed my own hands and looked down at them. 

“So…it isn’t permanent, is it? You need to keep doing it? Taking…people’s skin?” I asked him, trying to get him back on track, and hoping that he would maintain his normal composure. He looked back up at me like a confused puppy. 

“Oh…yes. Unfortunately, it isn’t permanent. Every few weeks I need to replace it. Nothing I’ve tried has been able to make it last longer. Not only that, but I can’t control this power very well either. As you saw with Wilson and the last patient, if I don’t concentrate hard enough, things go very wrong.” He took another long sip from his coffee. 

That answered a lot of questions. W...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/JLGoodwin1990 on 2024-10-24 04:06:20+00:00.

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Part 1

Thursday, 3 July, 1952

I write today with, what feels like for the first time in an eternity, a shred of good news. Blake has given an initial inspection of both the radio and telegraphs, and has come to the conclusion that, while it will take a small amount of time, the damage dealt to both is within her means to repair. She has told us that it will take, with a combination of supplies found within the living quarters and from our own bags, a maximum of two to three days to get them back up to snuff.

I can also report that during Soren and Morretti’s watch as well as, accompanied by Corrin, my own, we saw and heard no trace of…whatever lies out there. I hold no delusions that they may have left, though; all throughout the night I could feel their eyes upon the fort. Especially when I passed a window. Several times I would stop in front of them, swinging my head around and squint into the blackness. Of course I saw nothing, but. The hair that rose on my arms every single time assured me that, if the night were able to withdraw and allow the secrets it covers to be visible, I would have borne witness to a sight both blood chilling and macabre in its appearance. In the past, I often wished that God had given us the night vision that large predators were bestowed with, but now, I am beyond thankful He did not.

For the most part, we have remained inside the living quarters, only venturing outside for brief periods of time to fetch water from the water garden. The fear and tension felt when doing so though is palpable enough to slice with a bloody razor, especially as it sits directly next to the main wall of the fort. When it was my turn to refill our canteens, my head swiveled around on my neck not unlike an owl’s, turning this way and that and feeling that if I allowed even a second to glance away from a particular spot, I would turn to find the last thing I would ever see gazing into my eyes. Fortunately, whether due to the material the fort was built with or its position against the mountains, the interior remained relatively cool, even as the noonday sun beat down to the point I could see, both up close and in the distance the air itself shimmering from the temperature.

I do have to mention one thing. Ever since Tarek fled inside the building the other day, he refuses to try and help us in any way. When asked by Morretti, all he would do is shake his head and repeat the words he spoke to us the other day, the words about the ones who live in the mountains, before retreating into a supply closet. He remains there, only coming out briefly for food or water before returning to it.

One other important thing to note. As we had some free time on our hands, I used it to further explore the living quarters, thoroughly checking every lockbox and supply case for anything we could possibly use. In most, I have found only medical supplies and, in the upper levels of the building, two cannons, along with fuses, gunpowder and half a dozen cannonballs. However, as I further explored the upper areas, I found a metal lockbox that, after breaking the aged lock with the butt of my revolver, held two flare pistols within. Each only has a single flare, already loaded inside with no sign of additional flares nearby. I showed them to Morretti and the others, who agreed that they would be stowed away to be used if any sign of life were spotted in the desert below. “These may be what end up saving our hides” Talley said.

The sun is setting now, and with the descent of the orange, almost blood red sun over the horizon, it feels like whatever safety we felt in the daylight is disappearing before my very eyes.

I pray we make it through the night.

Friday, 4 July, 1952

The screams…

I find it a struggle to put to ink and paper the abject horror and shock that I feel this morning. But I must, if only to try and help preserve the fleeting sanity that almost seems to precariously cling to me. Last night, Soren and I were tasked with taking the first watch, patrolling the halls and rooms until half past one in the morning, when we would rouse and be relieved by Morretti and Corrin. Soren carried the shotgun, while I remained with my pistol. Slowly, silently we moved through the building, occasionally convening to confirm no sign of trouble and poking our heads into the bunk room to check on the others. The only sound that could be heard, aside from the whistling wind and creaking of the ancient building, was the soft ticking of the watch on my wrist, its unstoppable march seeming to bring a little comfort to me.

That was when I heard it.

At first, I couldn’t identify the sound; it was too far off in the distance and too muffled to properly make out. It barely carried on the wind, almost being whisked away completely. But as the moments spilled over into minutes, I realized that it was slowly growing louder. Which meant whatever it was…it was getting closer. Feeling my heart begin to race in my chest, I raised my revolver and pulled back the hammer, my eyes straining to see into the darkness. The sound continued to increase in volume, and for a moment I froze. For a moment, I had almost recognized it. A shiver passed through me as I gripped the windowsill tightly in one hand, the other shaking slightly as I aimed the gun into the black.

That was when a hand fell on my shoulder.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, whirling around to find Soren standing beside me, the shotgun raised toward the ceiling in his free hand and an intense look upon his face. He looked at me. “I hear it, too” he said simply, in response to my unspoken question. For another moment the two of us stood there, straining our ears as we held by the window. The sound continued to grow nearer, and I felt another shiver pass through me. I couldn’t understand why, but I almost swore I recognized the sound. Finally, I whispered back to Soren. “What is that?” He remained silent for another moment or so. Then I saw his face go slightly pale in recognition, his expression changing from stone to clearly unnerved.

“…Screaming”

There was another stretch of silence between us as we both strained our ears. I prayed for a moment that he was wrong. But as the wind fell for a moment, I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice as it came again, clear this time. It was, indeed, screaming. What’s more, the source was unmistakably human. I had heard far too many men to count scream on the battlefield during The War. Heard men shriek their last after they had stepped on a landmine and lay, blown apart and rapidly bleeding out on the ground with it too dangerous to try and retrieve them. I heard the screams of captured Germans in the bunkers as operatives went to work extracting information from them.

These screams not only rivaled them but surpassed them. They were the most horrible, panicked and pained sounds I had ever heard a human being utter. It sounded nothing less than as if the screamer were being flayed alive, feeling every single cut and peel of their skin. And then the terror I felt compounded as a second rose up. A second scream. One which rose and fell beside the first, occasionally overlapping it until it sounded as though we were hearing the damned souls of Hell itself crying out for release. His eyes wide, Soren turned to me and said only three words.

“Rouse the others”

Soon, we all were standing by the window, every expression a mirror of the fear on the other as we listened to the infernal sound that, now, almost sounded as if it were coming from just beyond the sealed front doors of the fort. Blake clasped a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes and leaning against me; I wrapped an arm protectively around her, pulling her close to me as I looked at the others. Corrin looked as though he were about to faint from terror. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” he breathed. I saw Talley swallow hard. But it was the look that swept across Morretti’s face that drew my attention. It was one of recognition. He fought to find his voice for a moment, then softly spoke, his voice almost lost to the shrieks outside.

“Samir…”

Everyone turned to look at him at the single word he uttered. I felt a small wave of confusion wash over me. Then, if possible, I saw Soren’s face go even paler than it already was. “God almighty. That is Samir. And that other scream…I remember how Richter yowled when he broke his ankle a few years ago. That’s…that’s him” Fresh waves of horror rolled over us like the sea as the information sunk in. I had been on the same expedition with the two men when Richter had broken his ankle climbing a rock. I prayed to the God I hoped was listening that they were wrong. But in my bones, I knew they weren’t. I knew we were hearing the screams of our two lost compatriots. Talley suddenly began to turn towards the stairs to the lower floor, yanking his own pistol from his holster. “We have to help them!” he yelled, beginning to sprint away. Just as quickly, Soren and Morretti began to chase after him, telling him to wait. Still holding onto Blake, I jerked my head for Corrin to follow and hurried after them.

*When we descended the stairs, we found Soren restraining Talley, his face enraged in the flickering lig...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nashtyboii on 2024-10-24 01:51:57+00:00.

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I never used to be like this. My name’s Alex, and if I’m being honest, I’ve never been one of those guys people would call the life of the party. I wasn’t great at making friends, didn’t go out much, and I’ve been single for as long as I can remember. But I was normal, you know? Quiet, maybe, but normal. I held down a job. Kept to myself. People at work thought I was weird, I guess—kept their distance—but it didn’t bother me. I liked being on my own. I didn’t need anyone.

But lately, something’s been happening. Something I can’t explain. And I’m starting to wonder if being alone is the reason why. If maybe, being by myself all the time, living in this tiny apartment with no one to talk to, has messed with my head.

No one’s visited me in months. My phone doesn’t buzz anymore. People have stopped trying. I used to make excuses for it, saying I liked the quiet, but now… now, I’m not so sure.

Maybe it’s the isolation. Or maybe it’s something else.

That’s when the itching started. Just a little scratch at first. Right at the back of my neck. Annoying, but nothing major. I thought it was stress, or maybe I’d developed some kind of allergy. You hear about people having that stuff all the time, right? It wasn’t until the itching turned into something more that I realized…this wasn’t normal.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when things shifted. Maybe it was gradual, and I just wasn’t paying attention, or maybe it happened all at once, like flipping a switch in my head. But I felt something under my skin. At first, I thought I was crazy, but the more I felt it—the more I scratched—I knew something was there. Growing. Moving.

I’m not crazy. At least, I don’t think I am.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t know what it’s like to feel your own body turning against you. To feel something alive under your skin. Some days, I think it’s all in my head. Other days, I’m certain it’s real. But no one else would believe me. Why would they? I barely believe myself sometimes.

I tried looking it up online—trying to figure out if this was some kind of disease or infection. There are forums out there, filled with people who say they’ve felt the same thing. Parasites, they call them. Bugs crawling beneath the skin, burrowing deeper. I laughed it off at first. Figured it was just people looking for attention, trying to freak each other out.

But then it happened to me.

I started noticing little lumps under the skin, just on my neck at first. Small at first, barely noticeable, but they didn’t go away. They’d shift, like something was writhing beneath the surface, and every time I pressed on them, I swear I could feel them move. The itching became unbearable, like ants crawling just under the skin, and no matter how much I scratched, no matter how deep my nails dug in, it wouldn’t stop.

It wasn’t just lumps. Soon, my skin started to blister—tiny, raised bumps that oozed yellow fluid when I pressed on them. I tried to ignore it, but then more of them started showing up. Small, pin-sized holes. Holes that leaked, that itched worse than anything I’ve ever felt. I stared at them in the mirror, watching them spread like a disease across my neck, down my arms.

And then I started hearing things.

I’m not sure when the noise began, but once it started, it never stopped. This buzzing in my ears, this constant whirr—like cicadas screaming just beneath my skull. It started as a low hum, like distant machinery. But every day, it got louder. Louder until it was all I could hear. It’s like their wings are brushing the inside of my brain, rattling my thoughts, eating away at my sanity.

I thought maybe it was tinnitus, but this isn’t like any ringing I’ve heard before. It feels alive. Almost like they’re inside me.

That’s when the hives spread.

Tiny clusters of holes, dotting my skin like the surface of a hive, oozing that same thick, yellow pus. I would press on them, desperate to squeeze whatever was inside out, but nothing came except more blood, more pain. I started seeing movement in the holes—little black specks writhing inside the pits, like something was nesting in me. I thought maybe if I cut into them, I could dig it out, but every time I tried, the thing slipped away, burrowing deeper under the skin.

I know how this sounds. Believe me, I do. But I’m not making this up. This is real. I can feel it.

But some nights…when I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the buzzing so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts, I wonder if maybe I am losing it. If maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe the isolation, the silence, the constant being alone with no one to talk to…maybe it’s all catching up with me.

But then I feel them again—those little legs crawling through my veins, burrowing into my muscles, and I know it’s not just in my mind. How could it be? I see the holes. I feel them.

I tried burning them out. Maybe it was stupid, but I thought the heat would drive the thing out. I held a lighter to my arm, letting the flame scorch the skin, watching as the blistering flesh blackened and peeled away. The pain was unbearable, but the noise, the sound of the buzzing—it got quieter. Just for a second.

But when the burns healed, the holes came back. They always come back.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every part of my body feels infested, like I’m rotting from the inside out. I’ve even started to smell it now—this sweet, rotting scent coming off my skin. The buzzing is louder than ever, the cicadas deafening in my ears, drowning out everything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see them—the little black shapes crawling just beneath the surface, burrowing deeper, spreading.

I tried calling a doctor once. I made the appointment, stood in front of the mirror, practicing what I was going to say. But when the day came, I couldn’t bring myself to go. What would I even tell them? “There’s something growing inside me”? They’d lock me up. Throw me in a padded room. Give me pills and tell me I’m hallucinating.

Maybe they’d be right.

But what if they’re not?

I can’t tell anymore. Whether it’s real or not, it’s eating me alive.

I thought maybe I could cut it out.

I took a paring knife from the kitchen, its edge dull but enough to do the job. I started small, just pressing the blade against one of the clusters of holes on my forearm. The flesh was raw and soft, pus oozing from the tiny pits. My hands trembled as I pushed the blade into the skin, just a little—just enough to break the surface.

The buzzing grew louder, almost like the cicadas were excited, anticipating what I was about to do.

I pushed deeper, the blade sinking into the flesh with a wet, sickening squelch. The skin peeled back under the pressure, tearing in uneven lines. Blood welled up around the knife, thick and dark, but beneath it, I could see it. I could see something moving. Just under the skin. Something black, something squirming.

I dug the knife in deeper, desperate to reach it. The pain was intense, like fire crawling through my veins, but I didn’t care. I had to get it out. I had to stop whatever was inside me before it spread.

I yanked the knife through the flesh, pulling it away in ragged strips, revealing the raw, red tissue underneath. Blood poured from the wound, mixing with the thick, yellow pus that dripped from the holes. I used my fingers to pry the skin apart, tearing at the meat like a butcher at a carcass. My nails dug into the flesh, pulling it away in chunks, but no matter how deep I went, I couldn’t reach it.

The thing inside me slipped further away, burrowing deeper into my arm. I could feel it crawling through my muscle, feel it laughing at me, mocking me.

I stabbed again, over and over, each cut more frantic, more desperate. The pain blurred into a dull, throbbing agony, the blood pooling on the floor, staining my clothes. I screamed, my voice hoarse, but the buzzing only grew louder, drowning me out.

I reached into the wound, my fingers slick with blood, and tried to dig it out. I could feel the squirming mass just beneath the surface, feel it slipping between my fingers. It was slick, like oil, sliding through my grasp every time I thought I had it.

I ripped at the skin, pulling it away in long, ragged strips, exposing the bone beneath. The buzzing was deafening now, the cicadas screaming in my ears, filling my head with their maddening song.

But no matter how much I tore, no matter how deep I went, I couldn’t find it.

It was still inside me.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Fabulous-Cookie-2559 on 2024-10-23 21:24:39+00:00.

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Going to work is unfortunately something none of us can avoid and after everything that I’ve been remembering the past few nights….. I might just join the military to avoid it. My name is Clara, for the record, and I will never work in a mall ever again.

Going into my store everyday came with its challenges, most of them didn’t begin until the customers started to pour in from the food court. But, this day was special, this day was way different. I went, opened and closed the gate as normal, and clocked in on the main computer. I glanced over and saw that my store manager left a note for me, kind of odd but not entirely unusual considering it’s Phil. I had worked in that store for over a year and he still did not understand how to schedule. “I’m going out of town for the day for a company meeting! Kick butt today and don’t forget to go through and change out some of the displays! -Phil”

I sighed. That was his job, not mine. “Another Phil-ism for the books.” I said aloud to myself. I completed the rest of my daily opening duties before I moved onto the extra stuff that Phil was pushing off onto me. I went over and grabbed the clothes pole so I could take down everything I had put up previously. Reaching the pole up in the air, I tried to hook onto the hanger, of course it wasn’t easy, it was never easy. I finally caught one and wrangled it off the post like a bear catching a salmon. I sighed again, realizing that I had nothing to hang this stuff on until I put it away. “Small inconveniences make for big frustrations.” I said aloud to myself again, I hated going to the back room alone. I walked into the back, singing a little song to myself like a child who’s afraid of the dark, this WAS the dark and I AM the child. I’ll still admit it.

I made my way to the back corner where the rolling racks were stored and as I placed my hand on the cold metal of the bar, I realized that the lights that were normally motion sensitive, hadn’t turned on yet. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I tried to pull the rack out of its cubby quicker after the gain of this knowledge. “This would happen when I’m already scared.” The rack stuck onto the wheels of the many other racks in the corner and refused to let go from its metallic friends. “Forget it.” I let go of the rack and hustled up to the motion sensor on the light. I stood there for a moment and started to flail my arms in the air rapidly to try and get it to turn on. Nothing worked, so I had no choice but to pull my phone flashlight out to solve the problem at hand, the electrical work could wait for another day.

I walked back to the back corner of the room with the flashlight neatly tucked in the front of my jeans so that I had full use of my hands. As I bent down to grab a hold of the wheels in order to detangle the metal, I heard a small settling of something behind me. Not a metallic sound but more of a piece of wet cloth dropping to the concrete ground. An alarm set off in my head. I began singing again, that was the only thing that seemed to calm me down but, I still wouldn’t look behind me to see what it was.

With a 'clang' the pieces of metal finally came undone and the rack finally came loose. I rolled it out of the room, specifically pointing my back towards the sound. As I led the rack back out into the store front, I looked over to the fire exit door that led to a small courtyard outside. The door had a bright red bar across the handle to let you know the alarm will sound as soon as you walk out. That was normal, the door was closed as normal, however, there was one thing that was strange. There was no light coming through the peephole of the door.

I rushed back out into the front of the store. Panting from not only running but, also just from the quick shock that I had gotten. I check the clock, it’s 11:00 am, time to open up.

An hour or so went by and there still had not been a single customer in my store, actually there have been like no customers besides the same groups of two or three elderly people fast walking around the mall corridors. The security guards and all the other workers are there as normal, I look out into the food court just to make sure. I stood in my entryway for a moment, being sure that I wasn’t imagining things. It was, indeed, the same people over and over and over. “1,2…..5,6…..9,10,11…13,14....16? That’s it?” I asked. After a few more minutes of standing behind the cash register, mulling that number 16 over in my head and glancing back into the doorway of the back room, I figured I should keep myself busy with the rest of the displays Phil told me to change. I picked the pole back up, put it into position and returned to my routine. Ten minutes went by, still no customers and I found myself leaning more into the music I had been playing than before, perhaps trying to keep my mind from thinking too much. Twenty minutes went by and as I was replacing the display at the top, I heard it. The exact thing that I was subconsciously afraid of, a voice. A small, faint voice, it sounded delighted in tone and seemed to only come out in a high pitched squeal. This time, I did turn around, my whole body twisted toward the origin of the sound and, of course, nothing. Absolutely no one to be seen. I held my breath then thought for a minute and I exhaled again, thinking that maybe I was still wheezing from the cold I had prior. What do they call that? Grasping at straws?

It took me a little bit to finally gain the courage to go back to the wall and continue the display. It was 3:00 pm by the time I finally decided to finish it, we closed at 7:00 pm. I walked back over, pole in my hand, and I began putting clothes up and taking clothes down, even getting sucked into the puzzle of shelving for a little bit. Seemingly, everything weird had stopped happening and I could finally focus on this damn display. Still, no customers. I went out to the food court again, 16.

Bending down, I retrieved the last shelf from the floor and put it into place, looking underneath as I lined the pegs up with the holes in the shelf. Standing back up and taking a step back by a shirt rounder, I appreciated what I had just achieved and metaphorically and physically “pat myself on the back”. I walked back in front of the wall and grabbed the pole from the shelf I had leaned it up on. As I reached for the pole, I felt, on the back of my shirt, a reach for me. A small wave of a grasp that wasn’t entirely successful. I gasped, without thinking, and spun around for a second time. Within this motion, I heard another small voice, a laugh this time. A chuckle, it seemed, too human to be what I saw in that moment. Peeking through the gap in the shirts, a young girl smiled up at me. She seemed to be around seven years old but, with extremely aging wrinkles around the sides of her eyes and deeply dark bags beneath them. Dirt caking the teeth that were looming out from behind her dry, cracked lips. Sat in a stout crouch in the middle of the rounder, she held her arms out to me as if to give me a hug. The smell that permeated from her underarms as she raised them to me was a stench I could never forget. It still lingers in my nose. The smell of death, disease and of matter decaying with every breath she took. Tissue sloughing off her cheeks as she smiled at me. I stepped back, she smiled again, put her arms back down by her side, and ran off into the back room of my store. I called Phil.

AUGUST 28 5:30 pm Phil has done nothing but laugh at me so I'm leaving. This is the one thing I’m writing down in order to try to get everything out into the open. I’m done with the store and whatever it has to offer. I’m doing exactly what everyone in the movies doesn’t do but SHOULD. He can laugh all he wants, I am not dealing with that. I’m calling security.

Sgt. Stints came to my rescue at that moment. Stints was a small, round and slightly uptight older man. Many people in the mall hated him because of that but, I always chalked it up to it being because he was bald. I told him about the peephole and the weird sounds. I even told him about the girl-woman and how there hadn’t been more than 16 people in the food court all day, him included. I asked him to go to the other side of the mall and find out more information. I didn’t know what else to do.

I closed the store gate at 6:30 pm, which gave me some time to go around to other stores and see if they experienced anything strange, besides, of course, the lack of new customers. I walked up to all three restaurants in the food court and they all gave me the same vacant smile, blank and soulless eye contact and they all seemed to follow the same script “Thank you for coming, have a nice day.” with a closing dirt-covered smile. Before turning away, dropping the smile to an almost melancholy frown and getting back to their tasks.

I went to the stores next door to my own, hoping that there would be some sort of normalcy there. We had become pretty friendly due to being so close to each other. I walked into the first store, and at first I didn't see anyone at all, not a single soul. I thought maybe they had closed their store as well, maybe they also thought some weird stuff was going on. But, everything else was normal, music going, cash registers still logged into ‘Katherine’. No manager would leave their store like this.

I walked around for a minute and noticed nothing else of substance and decided to go to the store on the other...

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